


Before The Gates

by Cadogan



Series: Before the Inquisition [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Backstory, Dragon Age Lore, Fifth Blight, Free Marches (Dragon Age), Gen, Grey Wardens, Intrigue, Mages (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars, Origin Story, Original Character(s), Ostwick, Ostwick Circle, Prequel, Templars (Dragon Age), The Chantry, Thedas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2016-02-19
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cadogan/pseuds/Cadogan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 9:30 Dragon and rumours of the blight in Ferelden have reached the fretful Free Marcher city of Ostwick. Ruan Trevelyan is the youngest son of a noble house; a man in search of a role.  As factions within the city vie for power he must decide who he can trust, and how much his principles are worth.</p><p>Will Ostwick come to Ferelden's aid, or will it be consumed by bitter division?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Great grey mountains of cloud were marching towards Ostwick across the Amaranthine Ocean, yet the sky above was clear and the afternoon was warm in the steady sunlight. The stirring salt breeze was refreshingly cool. Ruan Trevelyan barely felt it through the visor of his helm, the thick padded jacket and plate of his armour. His body sang with euphoria as it flowed through the forms of the greatsword. The searing ache in his muscles and sinews had long since faded. “The pain is an illusion,” his instructors had been fond of repeating, “the blade is real.” He knew that he was pushing himself too far and that he would pay for his exertions later, but he needed to train; focus and forget. He was nowhere near as good as he had been only a year earlier, when he had left the Academie des Chevaliers. His breathing was uneven and wasteful, his forms sloppy. Just thinking that had broken his discipline. His focus wavered and his greatsword glanced off the wooden dummy’s head and sent it clattering out to the side with a jarring that ran down his arm to his elbow. He yelled his frustration out and hurled the sword aside against the stone wall. 

“I suppose that throwing your sword at the darkspawn would be an unexpected gambit, but what then? Head-butting?” 

Ruan whirled around and was rewarded by a musical giggle . He glowered back in reply and unbuckled his helm to give the expression more force. “Hello Tamsyn.” he greeted her resentfully.  
“Hello to you too, little brother. How goes the the fight against the blight?”  
“It doesn’t. As you well know.” He was far too tired and frustrated to deal with the teasing of his older sister. “If you just came here to laugh then you can find tumblers and fire-eaters on the muster ground.” He pushed back his short-cropped and matted hair and leant down to pick up the sword. Tamsyn perched on the low wall on the edge of the tower and looked down at the field below the city’s outer walls that had been transformed in a muster yard for several hundred troops. “Oh, I don’t know. Your dance troupe seems to be quite amusing enough. I think the crowds would throw you a few coins.” Tamsyn was almost as tall as Ruan, and had the same red hair and sea-grey eyes. Her voice was dry and crisp as she added, “Father would be so proud to see you putting your education to good use.” Ruan said nothing in reply for a long moment. The pain is an illusion. The blade is real. He gave her a courtly bow, one he had seen wielded with as much maliciousness as any knife in Val Royeaux. “Why thank you, Sister. With any luck we will be able to do a passable courante at the coming wedding celebrations.”

Tamsyn’s smirk disappeared as quickly as if he really had struck her. For an instant Ruan saw the hurt on his sister’s face and any satisfaction he might have felt withered. Perhaps he had spent too long in Orlais after all, he thought remorsefully. Tamsyn’s expression hardened quickly. “It would truly be a sight to see you finishing something you started at last, Chevalier.” she returned icily. Tamsyn would ever have the last word in any argument, it seemed, and she had found just the right spot to strike him with her barb. 

Ruan stiffened and looked away, suddenly he was too weary to summon up any retort. Let the combatants retire from the field, bloodied. “I am not a chevalier.” he replied with a hard, simple emphasis. Then put his head down and strode away. He was stepping down onto the staircase of the tower when Tamsyn raised her voice.

“I came here with a message.” There was a tone of seriousness there which caused Ruan to turn back to her. “Revered Mother Thelois would like to bless your expedition herself. She asked me to bid you bring all who would travel with you to the cathedral this evening.” Ruan raised an eyebrow. The afternoon was already growing old. “Tonight?” he asked doubtfully.  
Tamsyn looked over her shoulder to the inner walls of the city and the three hills on which old Ostwick was built. The spire of the cathedral and the high tower of the Principia, the palace of Ostwick’s teyrn, rose like rivals reaching to outdo one another from opposite hills that each took their names from their crowning buildings.  
“There is no time at all like the present. All your company… and companions.”  
Ruan glanced from the high hill back to his sister. There was clearly more going on than she was saying, and he hated being kept in the dark. Yet he had to admit that some part of him was tantalised by the innuendo in the invitation. Despite the traded barbs, he trusted that his sister would not seek to do him harm; at least not knowingly. “Please take my thanks to her holiness. We will come.” With that he nodded once to Tamsyn, and descended to the gatehouse below.

The muster yard resembled a fair more than it did a military encampment. Traders had been allowed to set up stalls around the field and somewhere music was being played on drums and a fiddle. As Ruan strode across it he tried not to notice the men rolling dice while their officer chatted to a pretty girl selling pastries and candied apples. A week ago he might have gone over, chivvied the men along with their training with a good humoured challenge and a few hard words and later upbraided their officer for his poor example. It was harder to ignore the gout of flame that erupted from a huddle of soldiers that whooped in delight as the fire-eater performed. He still felt derelict in his duty as he walked by, but the truth was that these were amateur soldiers who no longer saw the urgency or purpose to their discipline, and Ruan found it hard to muster arguments against that attitude.

Word of the darkspawn abroad in Ferelden had reached Ostwick weeks ago and the city buzzed with rumours of horrors and arguments about how to respond. Some said that the militia assembled here should sail for Ferelden to help crush the horde before it could become a new blight and spread to threaten the Free Marches. Others saw it as folly to send soldiers far away at a time of danger. For weeks the debate had simmered, and occasionally boiled over, from the taverns on the dockside to the Principia on the hill. Teyrn Henryk himself had made no declaration on the matter. However, many saw his failure to give permission to the militia to sail as signal enough of his opinion. As the son of one of the major noble families, Ruan knew full well that the teyrn was not the only power in the city, and so the revered mother’s invitation had set his mind racing. Was this the signal that the militia would soon sail? Tamsyn’s words had seemed to imply as much. It could just as easily be no more than a gambit in the high politics of the free city. Under the more-or-less watchful eye of the teyrn, noble houses, the chantry, guilds, merchants and even criminal fraternities jostled, cheek-by-jowl, for position and profit in the crowded streets between the twin walls of Ostwick. 

A cheer from a group of men by the archery butts drew Ruan’s attention, and there he spotted the man he was seeking. Conrad Evenrig was taller than many of the others around him, but he would have stood out among them in any case. He held his arms above his head with a grin and his laugh rumbled infectiously through the crowd. He exchanged the bow he was holding for a tankard and held that aloft too. “Well I’ll drink to all of you who had the wisdom to wager on me!” and then proceeded to down the ale to more cheers. Ruan stood a few paces back from the crowd as the archer was slapped on the back and shook by the hand by the gaggle of admirers. While Ruan waited he surveyed the muster yard. One circle of plain blue tents nearby stood out amongst the festive atmosphere. Within the circle he could see a group of warriors drilling under the watchful gaze of a tall, dark skinned man in simple armour. Ruan also noticed that one or two of them were busy ordering and packing up their simple supplies. The rowdy commotion at the archery butts attracted the attention of the dark skinned man and he looked over, unsmiling, before turning back to his warriors. It was a brief moment, but it was enough to fill Ruan with embarrassment and shame.

“Roon! There you are!” the archer drew his attention back with a booming greeting. Ruan replied with a bow of his head “Here I am, my Lord Evenrig.” Conrad had olive skin, unruly black hair and beard, broad shoulders and an easy smile. “My lord, is it?” he chuckled, “Maker save me, that means that you are mad with me.”  
“It would be terribly presumptuous of me to be angry with my commanding officer, my lord.” Ruan replied.  
Conrad smirked, “They do say that about you, you know.”  
“They also say that you are a drunken ass, so it’s good that we don’t put any stock in idle talk, isn’t it?” at that Conrad burst into a belly laugh and Ruan couldn’t help smiling back at him, Maker damn him. “Now I know that you are angry with me.” Conrad slapped Ruan on the shoulder and Ruan allowed him to draw him into the group of officers and nobles. “Does that mean that I can’t convince you to knock Luttrel over here on his ass for me? The man has wagered his finest horse that he can beat you.” One look at Luttrel’s eyes told Ruan that it wouldn’t take much to put him on his ass at the moment. The evening was barely upon them and most of the officers were already in their cups. “Perhaps another time, my lord. Besides, I have something I need to discuss with you in private.”  
“Are you finally going to admit how much you love me?” Conrad grinned, and the others laughed.  
“All the world knows how much love I bear thee Bann Evenrig,” Ruan played along, dramatically lifting one hand and clapping his breastplate with his gauntlet, “Alas, you are promised to another!”  
“Maker’s mercy! Don’t bring up the bloody wedding!” Conrad growled. “Come on then.” he beckoned and started for his tent, “Away with you all!” he waved at the gathered notables, “I have matters of state to discuss and no more time for sport.” 

Conrad threw aside the the flap to enter his tent. Though only four years older than Ruan, he was the head of one of the wealthiest families in Ostwick. By virtue of his rank he had been appointed as marshall of the militia and his tent was the largest on the muster ground. There was a large table in the centre and space to assemble a dozen people around it. The device of House Evenrig, a boar and crossed spears, decorated a tapestry at the back of the tent. The same device was repeated in the embroidery on Conrad’s velvet doublet, just as the Trevelyan stallion was etched into Ruan’s breastplate. Conrad picked up a squat bottle from the table and uncorked it with his teeth, pouring some of the rich red wine into goblets and offering one to Ruan. Ruan took it without looking at it, “The revered mother wants to bless the militia.” he announced. Conrad took a drink, sighed and slumped back into a high backed seat, “Wonderful. We’ll all march up and down and say our prayers like good little boys.”  
“Tonight.” Ruan added. “In the cathedral.”  
“What?” Conrad looked puzzled and rubbed his temple, “Did you tell me about this? I don’t remember…” Here, with only the two of them present his voice was quieter, less confident.  
“I am telling you about it. I only just heard.”  
“I don’t understand.”  
“Nor do I. Not really,” Ruan replied, “But she sent the message this afternoon. ‘she wishes to bless our expedition’” he repeated. “Perhaps it is a sign that we will finally be allowed to sail for Ferelden?”  
Conrad shut his eyes and rubbed his temple harder, “And the message said tonight? Do you trust it?”  
“It was Tamsyn that brought it to me.”  
At that Conrad sat upright and looked up at Ruan. “Tamsyn is here?”  
“She was. Briefly.” Ruan replied, and saw relief and disappointment fight for supremacy on his friend’s face. “Did she seem… well?” Conrad asked.  
Ruan considered, and then shrugged. “She seemed herself. If that is what you mean. I think that we should take up the revered mother’s invitation. It might be our last chance.” Conrad frowned, knocked back the goblet of wine and sighed. Then he nodded. “Alright… can we get the men in order in time?”  
Ruan took a drink from his goblet, then set it down. “Let’s find out.” 

Almost an hour later, the camp was abuzz with activity. It had taken almost five minutes before the idea that the trumpet call was in earnest had sunk in. The frantic confusion that resulted still ruled the muster ground. Officers yelled commands. Those that were sober yelled commands that made sense. Some men still scurried around, searching for pieces of armour or weapons. Most of the units were now formed up. Ruan had buckled on a dress cloak over his armour, knowing that he did not have time to take off his armour and change into his house livery. His presence, apparently ready for battle, seemed to spur on those around him and slowly, painfully slowly, the company was forming up.

Finally, he found the time to approach the group of blue tents circled in the corner of the muster yard. Their occupants had already been in their battle attire and stood watching the display. Their leader was the tall man with dark skin and a shaved head. Ruan had been running through what he would say to this man for over an hour. He had a neatly trimmed grey beard on his chin and an old scar across his nose and cheek. The only adornment he wore was the griffon on his breastplate. “Constable,” he began, “You have been patient with us and I thank you for it. I will ask one more indulgence of you. After tonight if we are not sailing with you to Ferelden, I can ask you to delay no longer.” Warden-Constable Hector regarded him with a cool gaze and then looked over at the mustering troops. “Has your teyrn given you leave to come with us?” he spoke with an Antivan accent.  
Ruan sighed. “Perhaps. My hope was that your presence here would inspire people to press him to do so…” he turned and pointed to the spire of the cathedral. “The revered mother has asked to bless our expedition. If your wardens were to lead our procession through the city, with her influence behind us… It is just possible.”  
Warden-Constable Hector met Ruan’s eyes for a long moment. “Very well.” he said at last. “I will give you this one evening, Serah Trevelyan. Then tomorrow we must go to our duty, with or without you.”  
Ruan bowed. “I can ask no more.”

The sun was setting as the company marched up the Temple Hill. The Western sky was painted in the colours of flame and the wind was blowing cold and insistent from the ocean. There were only sixteen grey wardens, but they carried a banner at the head of the column; a silver griffon and chalice on a royal blue, and it streamed proudly before them in the wind. The people of Ostwick leaned out of windows and gawped in the streets as the militia paraded by. Perhaps it was that attention, or even the wardens’ banner at their head, but Ruan noticed that the men marched with heads held higher; with more pride in their step. He wondered whether any of them were thinking on history as he was. Perhaps it was like this when Garahel rallied the Free Marches against the fourth blight? If even a quarter of his fellow citizens felt as he did, and they had the blessing of the chantry behind them, that might be more pressure than a reluctant teyrn could resist. If Ostwick marched, then perhaps Starkhaven, Tantervale and Kirkwall might join them? If the Free Marches could unite against the blight, that would be a sign that all Thedas could follow.

“Don’t get carried away, Trevelyan.” he muttered to himself in his sceptical voice, “Pride goes before a fall.” Yet as he looked up at the sunburst banner hanging above the gates of the cathedral, as he listened to the beating of the drums and the call of the trumpets, faith was hard to resist.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ostwick militia goes to the cathedral to receive a blessing, but not everything is as it seems. The Revered Mother has an agenda of her own.

Tamsyn Trevelyan knew the chant of light as well as any cleric of the chantry should. Her rise through the ranks of the Ostwick chantry had been rapid, propelled by the influence of her family, but she was diligent in her duty and this made up for her lack of experience. She needed every ounce of her experience now as she recited the chant from memory; pitch perfect. Her voice harmonised with that of the revered mother and dozens of brothers and sisters. The song rang clear as the dawn in the acoustic dome of the cathedral, banishing the howl of the rising storm outside. Echoing the song, light from the holy brazier in the chancel was blended with that of the braziers held by each of Andraste’s disciples whose statues formed the pillars flanking the nave. Hundreds of candles’ flames held by the congregation added to the radiance. 

Tamsyn recalled that, during her time as an initiate, Revered Mother Thelois had likened a well run chantry to a swan. It should be serene and beautiful above the surface. All that the gathered faithful should ever see is the way it gracefully glided through the Chant. Yet, underneath the water, a swan must paddle furiously. That apparent serenity was crucial tonight, for there would be eyes on the cathedral watching for signs of more. There had been little time to prepare for this ceremony and the cathedral was filled to capacity, so many of the townspeople had answered the tolling of the bells.

The revered mother chanted from Transfigurations 12: “My Creator judge me whole: Find me well within your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.” It was the prompt for the congregation to begin the procession around the holy brazier. Each had been given a strip of paper to write a fear, a prayer or a sin upon. Each would be thrown into the holy brazier to be cleansed by fire. To Tamsyn, however, it was signal that she must be alert. She had been given the role of orchestrating the procession. Her timing had to be precise.

She watched as she stood beneath the frieze of Andraste betrayed as the soldiers passed. This was a moment in which she had always felt privileged to be a part of the chantry. Each person revealed a little of themselves in the moment they dropped their paper into the fire. Some dropped them with barely a glance. Some stared into the flames. Some screwed up their paper in balled fists and threw them. Some divested themselves of whatever they had written eagerly, as soon as they set foot beside the holy brazier, some held them tight until the last possible moment. Some prayed, some sang, some were silent. Some walked away from the fires happy and relieved, some impassive, some in tears. Some would meet her eye. Most would not. Tamsyn often passed the time imagining what was written on each worshipper’s note; an infidelity, a theft, a shameful hope, a hidden desire, a long-nursed fear. They all went into the flames. 

Tonight, though, Tamsyn had no time for such meditations and fancies. She had to watch. The sisters of the chantry had the task of managing the flow of people through the cathedral. They ushered the procession through the aisles and the archways so that it never bunched up or halted. They had been instructed to bring certain people to the the brazier at certain times. Tamsyn saw her brother appear, still in his armour. His paper was neatly folded into a square. He looked down at the flagstones, turning it around between his fingers as he paced around the great stone bowl. He had almost completed his orbit when he looked up at the frieze of the Maker Comes to Andraste, his brow furrowed. Then he held his note into the brazier until the paper caught and the flames licked close enough to burn his hand. Then he let it go. 

Tamsyn nodded to the sister standing beneath the pillar-statue of Hessarian the Redeemed. At the signal she stepped into the procession ahead of Ruan and led it down the side aisle. Tamsyn watched and counted. She nodded and one of the brothers stepped in to cut the line again and lead the procession back down the nave. Then came the hardest part of all. She stayed where she was, and trusted that all knew their part, watching while the congregation made their way back to line up in the nave. Her mouth formed the words of the chant perfectly. Despite the urge to look down the aisle she kept her eyes ahead of her, watching the burning of the sins as she always did. The agonising minutes crawled by until finally she could move and glide, swan-like so that the flame of the candle in her hands never wavered, down the aisle. It was all part of order of things, so no-one noted one priestess slip down the stairs and into the crypt below.

The light of half a dozen torches cast wavering shadows across the arches and the floor was stone flagstones worn smooth over several ages. There Tamsyn found Revered Mother Thelois sitting on a small stool in the vaulted chamber. Standing around her were gathered seventeen others. The grey wardens wore blue cloaks and armour bearing the griffon and chalice. There were nine men, four women and three elves. The seventeenth figure was Ruan. Sitting among the tall martial figures, Thelois seemed very small, despite her mitre. She was thin and there was a slight tremble in her slow, deliberate movements, but her blue eyes sparkled and her smile was enigmatic.  
“Ah, Sister Tamsyn is here. We may begin.” the revered mother smiled at her and sipped from a glass of spiced tea, “Thank you for arranging for my tea to be down here, my dear. This old throat of mine gets so dry nowadays.”  
Ruan folded his arms and looked from his sister to the revered mother, “May we know the reason why we are here, revered mother?”  
Thelois set down her glass on the small table beside her and took a moment to cast her eyes around the gathering. Her smile disappeared and she sat with her back straight. Her voice was grave and direct. “There has been news from Ferelden. Teyrn Henryk has been hiding it from us all for almost two days.” The others were silent, but the sound of them shifting on their feet shivered through the crypt. “There has been a battle at the fortress of Ostagar. King Cailan and all his army were lost.” There were audible gasps. Then several people spoke at once. How did she know this? Why would he hide it? Was she certain of this?

Thelois silenced them with a raised hand a stern look. “Please, there is little time. Allow me to speak. As to how I know, let me simply say that it is the duty of a shepherd to know her flock. Whether the reports are true or not I cannot say, but at this moment that is less important than how others will react to them, and that is why the Henryk has kept them secret.” Tamsyn knew that the revered mother had more information about the teyrn’s court than Henryk would have liked. She kept the sources of her information close to her chest. Trusted as she was by her mentor, even Tamsyn did not know all of them.

“What of the wardens of Ferelden?” the tall, scarred warden-constable asked, his face taut.  
Thelois sighed. “On that there is some… disagreement.”  
The furrows of Hector’s brow deepened, “What do you mean?”  
“The reports of the battle are confused. Some say that all the wardens fell. Some say they were to blame.” the revered mother answered him.  
“To blame?” Hector thundered.  
“All that we know is that the Teyrn of Gwaren is now regent in Denerim. He has denounced the grey wardens as traitors. There is a price on the head of any of your order who survive in Ferelden.” stunned silence hung in the air at her announcement. Tamsyn’s hands were folded into the sleeves of her vestments and she stood like a statue watching the reactions. The warden-constable’s fists were bunched and he leaned back from the revered mother, glaring at her as though she had suddenly become darkspawn. Several of the wardens were glancing uncertainly at each other. One had sunk down to sit on the ground and buried their head in their hands. Another had turned away and was pacing between the pillars like a caged beast. Tamsyn’s brother had stepped back against a pillar and was leaning against it. One hand was tucked under his arm, the other rubbed his forehead.

“Madness.” Hector growled. “Why would your teyrn keep this from us?”  
Revered Mother Thelois tilted her head, “Why? To keep his options open, my dear; as he always does. He is a very cautious man. He will be sending his guards to detain you tonight.”  
“What?!” Hector was fairly shaking in rage now. “He cannot possibly believe these cursed lies.”  
“He probably doesn’t.” Tamsyn found that she had spoken up. “He is hedging.”  
Suddenly they had all turned to look at her. The corner of Thelois' mouth was curled up and her shrewd eyes twinkled. “Yes? Speak up, dear. He is hedging?”  
Tamsyn stood up straight and lifted her head. “As you said, revered mother, he is a cautious man. He sees keeping the wardens prisoner as the safest course whatever happens across the Waking Sea. If the blight is defeated Teyrn Loghain will rule Ferelden and Ostwick will have his friendship for capturing and holding you. If Ferelden falls and the blight comes across the sea, we have grey wardens on hand to fight it.” The revered mother was smiling proudly at her. Ruan was nodding in understanding. The wardens looked horrified. “Madness!” Hector spat, “Craven madness! Would he see all Thedas burn to keep Ostwick safe?”  


Tamsyn knew deep down that Hector was a man who had suffered several heavy blows in quick succession and his anger was understandable. Yet she disliked having it directed at her and her tone was chilly. It carried all the authority a scion of a noble house and a cleric of the chantry could muster, however young. “I did not say it was the right thing to do, Ser Constable. We have gone to some considerable trouble to warn you, after all. Her Reverence has burned many bridges to buy you this time. Perhaps you should calm yourself instead of frittering it away in impotent rage?” Tamsyn flickered her eyes to meet her brothers’. He was smirking at her while he leaned on the pillar and she fought to keep her imperious face straight. Meanwhile, with a single raised eyebrow, Thelois reminded Tamsyn of all the lessons in patience she had been at pains to teach her over the years. The warden-constable, however, looked as though he had been slapped. He opened and closed his mouth twice without speaking. Tamsyn could almost see his throat clenching as he swallowed his pride. 

“If I were to help you escape the city tonight, what would you do?” Revered Mother Thelois cut through the silence with a question. Hector swung around to face her. The first word of her sentence had not been lost on him. He regarded her carefully as he considered for a lingering moment.  
“I will not take my company to a country where they will be hunted as fugitives as well as facing the darkspawn.” he announced. His voice was steady again, but still hard. “We will travel to Starkhaven and join others of our order.”  
“Starkhaven?” the revered mother asked, seeming mildly interested.  
“Aye. From there we can easily move upriver to Nevarra and Orlais if the blight strikes West across the Frostbacks, or else South to the coast if it crosses the Waking Sea.”  
All at once Tamsyn realised what they were discussing and a chill ran down her spine. They were giving up Ferelden to its fate. By the look on Ruan’s face he was having a similar thought. Thelois was unreadable. 

After a long pause she rose from her seat, surprisingly easily for a women of her age. As she walked, however, she did lean on a cane. She tapped a chest that was behind the stool. “There are some plain vestments for brothers and sisters of the chantry in this chest. After the blessing I will send a party of sixteen to the Shrine of Andraste’s Crossing, outside the outer wall. There are horses hidden in a copse near the steam to the North.”  
“Our absence will be noted when the militia leaves this cathedral.” Hector replied.  
“That is why I will need some of your clothing, perhaps a few effects of your armour, to better disguise the people who will take your place.”  
Hector nodded. “We have equipment left behind on the muster field.”  
“I may be able to see it sent on to Starkhaven.”  
Hector sighed and rubbed the scar on his cheek. “Very well.” he said, then turned to the wardens and issued some curt orders. “All of you, take off your cloaks. Massen, your pauldrons. Innogen, Kilmead, your chest guards.”  
With that, they began to disrobe.

“With respect, Your Reverence, this won’t work.” It was Ruan that had spoken, and his turn to draw sudden looks from everyone in the chamber. “Oh? You think so?” Thelois replied in a flinty tone. Ruan had been chewing his thumbnail and drew a long breath as he pushed off from the pillar and stood up to attention before her. “You said it yourself. The teyrn is a cautious man. The way that you called us here so suddenly, he will suspect you know his plans and intend to interfere.” The revered mother raised her eyebrow at his choice of words, but if Ruan noticed he did not pause, “He will have people watching, especially for groups of sixteen making for the city gates.” He looked at one of the wardens nearby who had pulled a brother’s cowl over his head. Ruan pulled back the cowl to show the mail underneath. “They will see through this. You will never make it past the outer gates.”  
“Then what do you suggest, young man?” Thelois asked as she regarded him, with a slight flicker of her eyes to meet Tamsyn’s. Tamsyn replied with a raised eyebrow. For a lingering moment Ruan did not answer. He simply stroked his thumb across his lips and furrowed his brow. The revered mother pursed her lips and Tamsyn could see that she was about to speak when Ruan finally answered. “A feint.”  
“Excuse me?”

Ruan looked from Thelois to Hector. “If your opponent’s guard is too strong it must be deceived.” he nodded to himself as if the idea was still forming in his mind. He pulled a leather bound book and a stick of kohl from the satchel at his hip. Crouching, he scratched out two concentric rings on a flagstone. “These are the city walls. We are here.” he marked a cross in the centre. “The teyrn will expect an escape attempt now, so he will have to spread his guards thin. He cannot have so many ready with such haste and secrecy. He will have some ready to take you at the muster ground.” He marked the muster ground as a rough square outside the outer ring, with a shield above it. “A feint draws your opponent’s guard away from where your true attack will come. Let me lead a group of soldiers disguised as your chantry brethren to the shrine beyond the walls.” He drew an arrow line from the cathedral out to the edge of the circle. “This will be our feint. If we can make enough noise and convince them that we are the grey wardens trying to escape this way we just might be able to draw his attentions away from the muster ground.” He scrubbed out the shield from the muster ground. Then he looked up at Hector and pointed at the muster ground on the diagram. “But you will be here, hidden among the rest of the militia. Believe me, there are plenty of places for you to hide away in that circus. From there you can slip away with your equipment.”

Hector’s granite face looked Ruan hard in the eye. Then he gave a nod. Ruan turned to Revered Mother Thelois. “Can you bring men from outside here in time?” he asked. Thelois looked to Tamsyn. Tamsyn’s mind raced and her palms felt cold as all eyes turned to her. The swan was paddling very furiously indeed, and it didn’t feel at all serene. She could picture the cathedral above packed with thousands of damp people. She could see just how they would move towards the doors to be vomited out into the night as a shepherd understood how a flock of sheep would run from the fold. Flocks were easily startled by the unexpected. “If we call for a collection before the dismissal, it may be done.” she nodded, “Perhaps you could say some words about those who suffer in Ferelden, revered mother?”  
Thelois sighed and nodded. “Yes. That would seem appropriate.” she said. After a pause she looked to Ruan. “We will of course need some of your soldiers to collect the alms and bring them to the vaults for safekeeping, young man.” she said with tone of innocence.  
Ruan gave a wan half-smile “It would be the very least we could do, revered mother.”  
Revered Mother Thelois nodded and returned the same sad gesture before tapping her cane on the floor. “There is much to do and little time. May the Maker bless you all.” she said, and with that, they were dismissed.

The wardens began to remove some pieces of their armour and Ruan made for the stairs. Tamsyn moved too, she was going to be very busy for the next few minutes. Yet she took her brother by the arm and stopped him. “Ruan. Whoever is in the group making for the shrine will be taken prisoner.” she said.  
“We’ll be counting on it.” he replied.  
“You’ll be taken.”  
“Someone has to do it.” Ruan shrugged, “And it is my fault that they are still stuck here.”  
“It’s your fault that they are not lying dead at Ostagar, you twit.” she used the same withering tone she always used when she caught her little brother in a mistake. “You don’t have to do this.”  
Ruan shrugged it off, “Every family needs a black sheep, Tamsyn. You will just have to live with the shame when you come to get me out of the teyrn’s gaol.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the blessing in the cathedral concludes, a party of chanters make their way to the gates of Ostwick.

Isehris kept her head down and held the cowl with her hand. Whenever she lifted her head enough to watch the others in the procession the rain drove hard and cold into her face and made her squint. The wind filled the hood like a sail and threatened to snatch it away. She held onto it tightly.The last thing she wanted was to expose the back of her neck and her ears to falling rain. There were sixteen of them, all similarly huddled inside their cowls and pushing on into the driving storm. The leader of the group, the young noble named Trevelyan, held a chantry lantern. Its openings were cut in the shape of a sunburst, but the flames had long since been snuffed out by the wind and he seemed rather ridiculous holding it aloft ahead of them. Isehris could hear a low drone beneath the the hammering of the rain and the howling of the wind, which she knew would be the company singing from the chant of light. It was probably just as well, she mused, that no-one could hear them. For she doubted that the gaggle of sodden soldiers could have put together a whole verse in order, let alone in harmony.

Their strange mummers act had begun about an hour before in the cathedral’s undercroft. The revered mother had returned to the podium before the sacred brazier and spoken a sermon on the innocents who would be killed or maimed by the darkspawn; the privations of those left orphaned and homeless; the silent horrors of famine and starvation. She had called upon the people of Ostwick to recall the Maker’s mercy and the compassion that Andraste had shown all the people of Thedas when she chose to stay among them. The people of Ostwick had dutifully opened their purses and given alms. Trevelyan himself had picked out soldiers of the militia to take the collection and carry it down to the undercroft. 

The bowels of the cathedral were a maze of small storerooms and dimly lit passageways. It was a wonder that the few clerics coordinating the operation had managed to keep track of so much of the comings and goings of confused soldiers. Some of the chosen had been directed to a chamber where they had been asked to dress in the trappings of the grey wardens. Then they were sent back up to the congregation. Others had been directed to another chamber where they were garbed as clerics and remained below. Meanwhile the wardens had donned the plain armour of Ostwick militia, or the clothes of simple cityfolk, and gone up to secrete themselves among the crowd.

Isehris herself had been astonished that she had successfully found the place that she wanted. She had gotten turned around in the passages and almost run headlong into a sergeant with close cropped hair who had seemed almost as confused as she had managed to look.  
“Didn’t they say to keep going this way?”  
“How should I know? this whole thing is a mess.”  
“I think that sister said that I should go into the next chamber on the right.”  
“On the right? All the doors here are on the left. Was there another passage back that way?”  
“I’m not sure. Maybe. We could take a look.”

From there she had found the chamber and been bundled into a vestment. As she changed she scanned the others around her. They were all impatient and restless as they waited. Trevelyan was unbuckling a suit of fitted plate armour. Underneath he was lean and well muscled. He moved with an unconscious grace that Isehris had seen in men and women long drilled in combat. His red hair was cropped short and his grey-blue eyes were penetrating but unreadable as he concentrated on the task in hand. As she watched him from the corner of her eye she noticed how his thumb toyed with a ring on the index finger of his right hand. It was white, a twist of enamelled wood or perhaps ivory. Trevelyan slipped it off his finger and carefully tied it onto a leather thong that he put on as a pendant. He held the ring in his hand for a moment and took a deep breath. He pressed it to his lips once, quickly, and dropped it into his tunic. A chantry sister approached him then and handed him a long robe, designed to flow freely as its wearer walked. She had left her cap and wimple aside and her long red hair was tousled and loose but her face seemed carved in marble. She had a look to her and cast to her jaw that echoed Trevelyan. The two of them looked at each other only briefly, but Isehris could see that volumes had been spoken. Isehris was suddenly certain that these two were family, and she found herself staring in fascination, wondering what that would be like.

A rushed message from a brother had informed them that the congregation had been dismissed and the the cathedral was emptying. Trevelyan walked up and down the line and looked each of them over, adjusting their ‘disguises’. “Here, Holm? Wear your dagger at your hip. See? We want them to see it bulging under your vestments… Watt, can I see your boots? Shine them up a little. Those steel toecaps will be a dead giveaway.”

Isehris had kept her eyes down as he approached. Tall human nobles were something that you learned to treat with caution and respect when you grew up in the alienage; rather like a bear or a snake. Plus, she had been told over and over again in her training to show deference to officers. She felt herself shifting, letting her shoulders drop and her hands hang at her sides. She stepped a little to the side, unerringly finding a spot where two taller people overshadowed her. Her breathing stilled and she imagined herself not there; not important. There was a veil of stillness around her, and there would be so many other things to look at. It was an old habit that she had learned very young. Few people could stay as still and quiet as a small elf girl, and knowing what they did to knife-ears outside the alienage after curfew had only honed those instincts. She guessed that a small part of her would always be what the thieves guild had made of her.

“Those gloves are a nice touch.” he said to her. Her heart jumped as she realised he had spotted her, another habit; an echo of the frightened girl she had once been. She almost looked up at him, but caught herself in time, holding her hands out and looking at the long, practical leather gloves. “The vestments can’t really cover them.” he continued. “Well done.”  
He stepped away to regard them all together and Isehris soundlessly exhaled. “Alright,” said Trevelyan, “I know that I am asking a lot of you tonight; something I never thought to be asking. All of Thedas needs the wardens to save us from the blight, and this is the one thing we can do to see that they are free to do that. Our part is simple. We play the part of chantry clerics as badly as we like until we get to the inner wall. The guard will likely search us then and take us for the grey wardens. When that happens they will try to arrest us. If you want no further risk to yourself you can go quietly. If you’re willing though, I ask you to break and scatter. Make them chase you, and don’t make it easy for them. Just remember that they are our people and they believe that they are doing their duty. If you must use your blades then use the flat. Aim to rattle them, not to kill.”  
“Please do not worry.” the redheaded cleric beside him added. “If you are taken you have my word, and the word of the revered mother, that the chantry will see you released with all honour intact.” 

Isehris had smirked at that. The thought of letting shem guardsmen take her on purpose didn’t sit well with her, orders or not. Then again, she supposed that orders had never sat particularly well with her either. Yet here she was, following this young lord on his mission to get them all arrested. 

The nearest way out of Ostwick’s inner city was through the Dreadnaught Gate in the North Quarter. Over one hundred and fifty years before this was the place where the Qunari had breached the old walls. Once the invaders had been repulsed, the victorious Ostwickers had rebuilt their walls and constructed a second ring wall beyond them. Ostwick was now famous for its double walls and many of its citizens still watched the ocean to the East and the North warily. In the wound where the Qunari had made their breach they had built a gate from the bow of a captured dreadnaught. In the darkness the harsh, angular archway had the appearance of a gaping maw. Isehris eyed it apprehensively as the procession marched straight into the teeth of the beast with their impotent little lantern held bravely aloft. Walking beneath it, Isehris mused that it should be a relief to shelter under the gatehouse, but glancing up at the murder-holes above and the portcullises at either end made her feel like a rat in a trap. The Qunari had indeed taught Ostwick the value of vigilance.

“Hold a moment, brother.” came the weary voice of the guardsman. They were halted in the gatehouse and a man ambled from the doorway inside the arch. He was huddled in a cloak and held a lantern that illuminated his grizzled face. He smiled amiably. “It’s a fierce, filthy night for a pilgrimage, brother.” he chuckled. Isehris could see Trevelyan turn to face the man with a faraway look and a beatific smile.  
“O Maker, here my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest of places.”  
The guardsman nodded. “Oh. Aye. Ahm… aye…”

Isehris kept her head down and her eyes up, watching the guardsman from under her hood. He looked up and down the column of clerics. On the surface it seemed like a perfunctory glance. Isehris, however, saw the way that his eyes flickered up and down to take in each of them. Perhaps she imagined the twitch at the corner of his eye as he looked at the hip of the man with the dagger, or the glint of metal on steel toecaps. She was sure enough of the way he pressed his lips together as he turned to wave them on. “I’ll let you on your way then, Chanter.” he said. He also dropped the arm holding the lantern to his side. Was that a signal? There were plenty of places someone may be watching from. Isehris risked a glance at the man as he disappeared into his guardroom, and caught him turning to look back at them as they passed. the way he snapped his head away when he caught her eye was all the confirmation that she needed. 

“A trap!” she called out at the top of her voice, and several things happened at once. The guardsman ducked inside the guardroom quickly, betraying how tense he had been. Trevelyan spun around to look at her, then quickly pointed to the Northern end of the gatehouse. “Go! Go!” he shouted and turned to run. Isehris cast her eyes around and drew in a long, measured breath, centring herself. She would have a few precious seconds to anticipate her hunters’ next move. In her mind she formed the image of rusting and flaking iron, woodworm and rot, twisting and snapping timber. When she heard the grinding of gears and the rasp of metal on metal she let her breath out and released her will. The air around her seemed to thrum with power as the portcullis behind her rumbled and thundered down. Ahead of them came a creaking and crashing sound as the second portcullis dropped and jerked to one side. It screamed as iron scraped on stone, and then it stuck, halfway down. 

Everyone was brought to a staggering pause by that. The counterfeit chanters watched warily for a heartbeat as the heavy portcullis hung above them. Isehris was already dashing past them. Her hood had fallen back and they gaped as the elf streaked past them. “Don’t just stand there, you idiots! Run!” she yelled and ducked under the portcullis. Trevelyan followed a moment later, then the others came after.

They ran out onto a square surrounded with half-timbered buildings. Their upper stories leaned out over those below. A graceful stone stone building with a pillared loggia stood on the opposite side. Between them was a water fountain and a troop of guardsmen. They seemed nonplussed by the failure of the portcullis. Instead of caged and trapped quarry they faced a headlong rush by a foe that outnumbered them. As far as they knew, Isehris told herself, all of the soggy and bedraggled figures in chanters robes were the legendary grey wardens in disguise. She would make use of that. There was enough hesitation as they tried to fan out on either side of the archway. One man, his armour finer than the others and carrying an expensive-looking longsword, yelled “Halt! In the name of….”

Isehris didn’t give him the chance to finish his barking. She did not have her staff, but vigilance was part of the motto of her order. The spell had been ready in her mind before she had entered the dreadnaught’s jaws. She raised her hands and felt the rush of power run through her as a wall of fire sprang up with a roar before her. She pushed her hands out and almost couldn’t resist the urge to laugh aloud in exultation as the wall rolled forward and scattered the men who had tried to cage her. For a long moment she was the flames, burning with fierce joy. By the time she released the spell she was standing alone.

The disguised soldiers around her had split up, some rushing headlong at the guards sent to arrest them, others dashing in different directions for the edge of the square. She ran. To her right and ahead was a stone archway that none of the others were heading for. As she ran a guardsman stepped out in front of her. She jinked around him with a small jump and skidded on the wet cobbles. For a second her heart leapt into her throat, but she kept her footing. Just a few more yards to go. Suddenly a big hand gripped her by her arm and dragged her back. “You’re not going anywhere.” growled a voice. Isehris took a deep breath and calmed her stammering heart. She let him lead her as she closed her eyes and gathered herself. In that moment she could see a glow around each of the people in the square, like so many steady candle flames. When she released her breath she sent all her fury and will out with it. It burst from her like a wave, visible only to her and buffeting all those candle spirits in its wake. The fingers digging into her arm lost their grip as their owner stared blankly into space, just like all the others. Isehris didn’t lose any time. She turned and ran as fast as she could for the shadows.


	4. Chapter 4

The heat was fierce on Ruan’s face even ten paces away. He did not envy the men who scrambled away from the rolling blaze. Several dropped their weapons and ran. He watched in horror as the officer lost his footing and fell backwards, barely getting back to his feet in time to avoid being cooked inside his armour. He turned to look at the woman who had summoned the fire. She was an elf. That much was clear now that her hood was flung back. Her hair was braided up at the back of her head and away from her face, only a few locks blew wildly in the wind. Whatever colour it truly was, now it glowed red with the firelight that glinted in her large almond eyes. She had a long, straight nose and brows that swept gracefully out in line with her large pointed ears. Her slim jaw line that ended in a pointed chin set in concentration as she held out her arms with those long, perfectly fitting, warden’s leather gauntlets. It took him a moment to recognise her as one of the grey warden mages. How could she be here? Why? 

He was staring, he realised, and there wasn’t time for it. Questions were a luxury for people who were not trying to fight their way out of traps. He tore the seam of the vestments he was wearing and drew his sword. As the flames advanced he gestured at six of his soldiers. “Sergeant Karel, your men are with me. We drive straight ahead; Right at them. They won’t stand. The rest of you scatter. Get out of the square.” At that he ran. As the flames were dying down he leapt over them. Karel and five others of the militia drew their weapons and followed. Ruan felt relief at that and allowed himself to think that perhaps he had chosen them well. The guardsmen on the other side reeled back. Though they outnumbered their attackers more than three to one, they were surprised and overawed. Ruan could see the panic on their faces as they watched ‘grey wardens’ from legend burst from a magical inferno. Ruan could almost hear Ser Thibaut’s voice in his head from his time in Val Royeaux. “When your foes are sheep, be a wolf”. Ruan yelled a feral howl at the top of his voice and rushed them.

One man was on his back, scrambling away from the wall of flame. He reached for his fallen spear and Ruan kicked his hand away. Then he stepped on his breastplate and jumped over him into the next guardsman. He swatted aside a feebly upheld spear and shoulder-barged its owner into the man beside him. They toppled over and Ruan kept moving. To his right a big, bearded militiaman named Watt roared and swung a staff at a guardsman’s head. To his left Sergeant Karel grabbed the end of a spear and pushed back, sending its owner staggering. Together they went crashing straight through the wavering line of guardsmen. A bolder, more composed guard raised his sword and swung it at Ruan. It was a clumsy move and Ruan felt a pleasing balance in his movement as he caught the blade with his own and turned it down. He reached out and grasped the man’s wrist with his free hand and yanked down hard as he jerked his sword arm upwards. His assailant’s face connected with the pommel of his sword and he reeled backwards, bloodied and stunned. Yet Ruan cursed himself. He had pulled the blow at the last moment and his opponent still stood. Ser Thibaut would have berated him for his lack of killer instinct. “Go back to your books if you want to be a scholar, Marcher!” Some instincts did live on in him, however. He quickly followed up, stepping inside his opponent’s guard and swept the flat of his blade to clatter against their head. He leaned into his step and barged into his opponent to help him on his way to the ground. The plan was simple enough. Keep moving. Press the attack. Don’t let them rally. If they could…

Before his thought was fully formed Ruan felt a wave of force hit him. He staggered on his next step and rocked back and forth. His vision blurred for a moment and he found himself staring at the cobblestones. The rainwater was running in rivulets between the cobbles. A piece of grit was lodged between two of the stones and he was suddenly fascinated by the way the water rushed on over, under and around it. There were many others nearby, holding their weapons limply at their sides and looking at each other blankly. He was sure that he was doing something that was important. If he thought about it he could remember the steps that he had laid out for himself. yet he couldn’t quite recall why he wanted to do it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw an elven woman dashing towards the Eastern side of the square. Only she of all the others seemed to be moving with any urgency. She was running for an archway shadowed beneath the upper, timber stories of a craftsman’s house. “Not that way.” he muttered to himself and wondered why he had done it. He shook his head as he watched her disappear under the arch. Then, all of a sudden, he tensed. His will snapped back into force. The wardens, and their escape, were his purpose here, and there was one of them running into a dead end with no way out. In a heartbeat he was running. There was a guard between him and the archway, standing beside a water fountain. Ruan seized him by the back of his breastplate and yanked them back over his knee to send them toppling into the stone trough with a splash and kept running. 

Behind the archway was a long, crooked alley. The buildings were stone-built on the ground floor, with timber stories above that leaned drunkenly close together as if holding a huddled conference with each other. The cobbles of the square did not extend beyond the arch and the homes of the respectable craftsmen on the square. Ruan’s boots squelched an inch or two into the mud as he walked. He scanned the alleyway for the elven warden. The houses here, their doors firmly shut, were more ramshackle. These were the homes of unskilled labourers. Still, their overhanging upper floors provided shelter from the rain. He kept moving, occasionally turning to glance back at the arch with his hand on the hilt of his sword. Yet as far as he could see he shared the alley only with a family of pigs that were rooting in the mud with their snouts. He reached the end of the alley and still could see no-one. 

He was just about to turn around a leave when she stepped out of the shadows. Ruan blinked. He had been sure to look everywhere. How had he missed her? She was hooded again, but her face was clearly visible beneath the hood. She lifted her large eyes to look at him with a small smile. “Would you say that we were distracting enough?” she asked. Ruan frowned. He had many questions, and her look seemed to dare him to ask them. He glanced back at the archway to the Dreadnaught Square once more. “There’s no way out through here. Follow me.” he said simply and walked back up the alley without looking back. 

When he stopped by the arch and pressed himself against the wall she was still there behind him. He leaned out to survey the square. The guard officer, whose pride had been singed by the wall of flame, was bellowing at his men. There were perhaps forty of them, and they were spreading out to block the exits to the square. At least two of his own soldiers in their chanter’s robes had been captured. Six of the guards had them on their knees and were binding their hands. As he watched the torchlight flickering on the wet cobbles and listened to the shouted orders, Ruan felt an almost physical stab of pain as a year old memory came rushing back; buildings on fire and armoured men on horseback; people running; screams of fear and pain. Suddenly there was a metallic, bitter taste of shame on his tongue. His body tensed and he almost yelled aloud. Instead he gritted his teeth and slammed the wall with his fist, leaning on it to steady himself as he watched the people he had led taken captive. “That was then. This is now.” he whispered to himself and quickly he turned away. “No way through.” he muttered through the lump in his throat without looking at the woman in the hood. 

He found the door that he was looking for three yards back from the archway. Nothing marked it out as different from the others. Yet any Ostwicker knew what would be here, even the son of a noble house, so long as they bothered to spend time beyond the inner walls or their country freeholds. He tried the heavy handle and the door swung open. They were welcomed by warm air heavy with the aroma of woodsmoke and homebrew ale, the low chatter of at least a score of voices, and an easygoing melody played on a fiddle. He beckoned her in behind him and firmly closed the door behind them. Ruan had to duck his head under the beams of the low, narrow corridor. They cleared the head of his elven companion by less than a foot. At the end of the corridor they could see the light of a fire and hear a voice calling. “Aldrick! Shut that damned door! There’s a draft!”  
“Maybe you should do it yourself, Oswald? Or part with some coin and buy a decent latch?”  
“You got a smart mouth, boy. You can go pour someone else’s ale down it if you want.”

They entered the small common room to come face to face with a slack jawed youth with straw coloured hair who was obviously in the middle of getting up to shut that damned door. A hush descend on the room. It wasn’t large, barely enough to squeeze in eight small tables. A row of barrels served as a bar and a stone hearth filled one wall. The ceiling was high enough for Ruan to stand upright, but just barely. He knew that there were backstreet taverns like this in almost every alley in Ostwick, and few of them ever saw a patron who didn’t dwell within a stone’s throw of its door. That alone explained the wary stares they were getting, even without their strange appearance. They didn’t have long. “Whose place is this?” he asked Aldrick. The youth pointed to a bald man with ruddy cheeks, broad shoulders and a thick, black moustache that covered his mouth standing beside the barrels. “That’s Oswald.” Ruan moved past Aldrick and wove through crowded tables to the tavern keeper. Reaching into his belt pouch he placed a silver coin on a barrel top. “You have rooms above?” he asked.

Oswald furrowed his brows and took a long look at Ruan. Then a long look at the slight woman beside him. Then another long look at the bright coin. Then he spat on the floor and glared at him. “I guess you must be desperate, brother. You can take your knife-eared whore elsewhere. I hear they ain’t picky about where they rut.” Ruan wondered for a moment what he meant. Then, as it dawned upon him he felt his face flush with heat. “What? She isn’t!… I’m not…” Suddenly his mouth was quite dry and he shut it firmly. He looked from the bristling tavern keeper to the warden at his side. She just raised her eyebrow and half smiled at him. Evidently she was enjoying his embarrassment. When she smiled her eyes glittered. In the lit room Ruan could see that they were olive green. She turned them onto the tavern keeper, snatching his attention away from Ruan. Her smile turned cat-like and she stepped towards him with slow, feline grace. “Have you also heard that we howl at the moon when we mate… and that we cast a spell on every human man that copulates with us to make them serve us and our pagan gods…” Oswald backed away from her, his eyes fixed on her as if he was afraid of what she would do if he looked away. He bumped up against the wall and she slunk right up against him. “They say that we make their blood sing with ecstasy so that they become slaves to their desire. I just know that I could ruin you for all other women … Maybe you would like it?” Her head was tilted to look up at him as she leaned against him. Oswald lifted a shaking hand to point a doorway in the corner of the room. “The door at the top of the stairs.” he said in a wavering voice. She winked at him. Ruan could see her remove the dagger from between the man’s legs as she turned away and walked past Ruan. “Coming?”

He didn’t hesitate to follow her from the room. They had to duck their heads and step up through a doorway onto a set of creaking wooden stairs that wound up onto a narrow landing. They went through the door at the top of the stairs. The room on the other side was just long enough to fit a bed with a rough woolen blanket, and wide enough to stand in between that bed and a wooden, heavy lidded chest. The ceiling was just as low as the common room below. There was a lit candle on a shelf and a seat in the bay of the window. Its cushion was made of plain, rough wool. Yet whoever owned it had embellished it with embroidery, all in various shades of brown. It drew Ruan’s eye with its delicate and intricate detail of birds, beasts and trees; an item worth little coin, but invested with pride and value in a poor place. 

The slight elven women sat in the window seat. Ruan hesitated and perched himself on the chest, watching her. She unlatched and opened the shutters just wide enough to peer out. A chill wind blew in through the unglazed window and swirled in the small room. She silently watched the alley below for several seconds before closing the shutters and turning towards Ruan. She said nothing about what she might have seen. “Well. Now that you have me here what do you intend to do with me?” she asked him with that same glitter in her green eyes. Ruan’s cheeks burned once again. He had seen that same, perfectly amused curl on Catarine’s lips many times. He realised, quite suddenly, that he had not been alone with a woman since the last time he had seen her; the night before he had left Val Royeaux. Had it really been more than a year? He looked away at the door and fidgeted in his seat. Then he caught himself, abruptly scowled and turned back to meet her eye. “My intention was to be a distraction while you escaped the city.What are you doing here?”  
She leaned back in the window seat and stretched. “You tell me. You are the one that dragged me to a bedchamber in a house of ill repute.”  
This time Ruan refused to be thrown off balance. “You know full well what I meant.” his voice was quiet and even, but his eyes were hard.  
Her smile disappeared and she sat up straight. “You should be thankful that I am here. You would be caged in the gatehouse if I wasn’t.”  
“If you weren’t here that wouldn’t matter.”  
“And what kind of distraction would you have made then? Would you have done a silly dance for them in your soggy robes while you quoted scripture?”

Ruan didn’t like to admit that she had a point. So he didn’t. Yet he knew that, thanks to her, the reports of spells and steel being used to break through the Dreadnaught Gate would draw more of the teyrn’s guards into the wild goose chase and away from the real grey wardens in the militia camp. His silence was quite enough of a concession. “Hector ordered me to go with you to make your feint more convincing.” she added in a softer tone. Ruan mused that it wasn’t a bad notion, and yet… “Then why not tell me so?”  
“It was a last moment decision. There was no time.”  
“And you didn’t want to give me the opportunity to refuse?”  
She shrugged. “Would you have refused?”

Ruan looked her in the eye steadily without answering. She met his gaze, unblinking, and raised her eyebrow. After a few moments Ruan smiled and got to his feet. “I suppose that this was a good deal more exciting than sitting in the gatehouse and doing impressions of Ser Hector.” he pushed the chest while he spoke. It was heavy and he had to put his weight behind it as he slid it up against the door. He looked back over his shoulder at her. “Thank you for that, at least.” He turned, cleared his throat and dusted off his hands. “I am Ruan Trevelyan, at your service.” he bowed.  
She blinked at that and laughed. “Perhaps I have no need of your service?”  
“Perhaps. You have it in any case. May I know your name, my lady?”  
She laughed again, “You may call me Isehris.”  
Ruan nodded. “Then perhaps I will.” he started to pull his vestments up over his head. “Take off your robe, Isehris.”  
“What?”  
His hair was a tousled mess when he dragged the sodden robe off, leaving him in his arming doublet and hose. “Well, we don’t have long. They’ll probably work up enough courage to come up here and lynch us in a few minutes. We have to make the most of the time we have.” He grinned and cleared half the room in a single long stride. Isehris jumped to her feet. “You can’t be serious!”  
“No, really. They probably will lynch us.” he shuffled to squeeze alongside her by the window. He carefully took the cushion from the window seat and laid it on the bed. Leaning for the shutter, he muttered “Oh” as if remembering something important and straightened up to snuff out the candle, leaving them in darkness. “Come on. I need that robe.”  
“Just the robe?”  
“All is pure to the pure of heart, my lady. Yes, just the robe.”

There was a rustling and the wet robe was handed to him. “Thank you again.” he replied and bent down to open the shutters. He leaned out and looked up, then ducked back into the room. He pulled a dagger from his belt and used it to cut the seams of the robes, and then cut the pieces into strips. Then he knotted the strips together, end to end. When he had a long rope he tied a loop in one end. He gave them a swift, hard tug to test the knots and sat on the window seat. Leaning out of the window he could see the winch above the shutter door on the upper storey of the warehouse. He span the looped end of the robes and cast it at the winch. He missed. He blinked in the rain and wiped his eyes before trying again. This time the loop passed over the winch and swung back towards him. He passed the other end of his makeshift rope through the loop and pulled to draw it though until it bound to the winch. He gave it another experimental tug. Then he stood back and handed the rope to Isehris. “Ladies first.”


	5. Chapter 5

Isehris held the end of the wet robe and looked at him incredulously. “So you want me to be the one to test your handiwork?”  
His face was lost in shadows, but his voice was calm and even. “It makes sense. I am confident that it will bear your weight, but if I go first and break the rope then you’re stuck here. I can afford to be captured. You cannot.”

She sighed and climbed up to stand on the window seat. She pulled on the rope of robes. Afraid that the wet material would slip through her grip, she wrapped it around her hand. She did the same with her foot, twisting it around the end of the rope to make a stirrup. She took a deep breath, gripped the rope for all that she was worth and jumped out of the window. As she swung across the gap just above the archway her arms screamed and she pulled hard to haul herself up. She wrapped the rope around her leg and pushed down. Somewhere nearby she could hear voices talking, perhaps on the other side of the arch. She looked up and the rain fell straight down onto her face. She squinted and kept going. The crane winch was a foot above her. One more pull and she could reach it. The metal was rusted and rough and the feel of it in her hand gave her a sense of security. She used it to pull herself up and get a foot onto the ledge. The loading hatch for the warehouse was shuttered with a heavy oak door, but the ledge was wide enough for her to place one foot in front of another and she quickly climbed up onto the winch. 

From there she gathered up the rope and tossed it to Trevelyan. The young nobleman looked less imposing in the plain doublet than he had in his stallion-embossed armour. He was crouched on the window seat and watching her with his brow furrowed and jaw set. He caught the rope and Isehris turned to reach up and grip the lip of the roof. It was only three feet above the winch bracket and she easily swung her leg up and brought herself onto the tiled roof. From the roof she had a view across the square. In the centre of it there was a caged wagon. By the light of torches she could make out armoured figures. She counted at least twenty five. Others were posted at the streets exiting the square. She hunched low against the roof and crawled to the point where it met the next building. 

Trevelyan swung out of the window. A minute or two later she heard the creak of metal that told Isehris he was climbing up on the winch. He grunted as he hauled himself up onto the roof. As he climbed up towards its apex she looked out along the next roof. She knew that she could leave the shem nobleman far behind before he even reached the top of the roof. Part of her screamed at her to go. Yet she also knew that she was in an unfamiliar city without any real idea of which way to go. She watched and waited instead, tense and fidgeting. 

Suddenly there was a crack, a clatter and Trevelyan fell down onto his face and slid quickly away from her. Tiles scattered and fell from the roof to smash loudly against the walls and the ground. Isehris froze and Ruan clutched the lip of the roof, wide-eyed and with teeth gritted. Voices called out from the square and footfalls came towards them. Agonising seconds passed as Trevelyan pulled himself back up. “There! On the roof!” somebody called and he moved quickly around the gap in the roof where the tiles had fallen away. He pointed along the alley and spoke through panted breaths. “That way. If we get over they will have to go around.” Isehris didn’t like the look of the rickety roofs of the alley tenements, but she moved quickly. The sound of pursuit from below pushed her on, but the sense of the drop held her back. She kept her eyes on the roof and she picked out solid footing in the dark. Her arms were held out wide to balance as she trod lightly. She dared not look back to check whether Trevelyan was following. 

A whistling noise rushed towards her and an arrow thudded into the tiles in front of her. Isehris threw herself down onto all fours and crawled. It felt achingly slow. As she neared the end of the alley she glanced over her shoulder to see Trevelyan doing the same crawl. Another arrow flew high overhead. Isehris could hear the calls from below.  
“Did you get one?”  
“No. They dropped low.”  
“You two get up on that roof. The rest of you follow me. Quickly” said a last voice, carrying a tone of command. The arrows and the voices stopped and Isehris covered the last few yards to reach a higher, stone-built wall at the end of the alley. Tentatively she got back on her feet and steadied herself. The lip of the roof above was still two feet out of her reach. She would have to jump to reach it. She looked down into the darkness below and quickly regretted it. “A frightened rabbit runs faster. A frightened rabbit jumps higher.” she muttered to herself and she could hear the intonation of Runner Orynn in her own voice. The runner’s job had been to ‘run’ the urchin pickpockets that came under the wing of the thieves guild in the alienage. She could hear the runner chiding her seven year old self into making a dash past shem watchmen. If he could see her now he doubtless would have laughed his raspy, leery laugh and spat his chewing salts on the floor. She jumped and her fingers grabbed the edge of the roof. Then they slipped on the wet, smooth stone and she yelped as she dropped with a clatter. Her feet slid apart on the slick tiles either side but she instinctively twisted to get her balance. For a moment she just stood very still and regained her breath. 

Some of the shem had gone to find a way up onto the roofs. She looked back, worrying that at any moment they might emerge. Instead Trevelyan was now approaching. “Here, let me by.” He muttered. Awkwardly they shifted their feet to share the tiny space on the roof’s spine as he passed. Their breath misted in the rain as they brushed past one another. Trevelyan moved to stand with his back to the stone wall and braced himself. He held his hands low in front of himself. Isehris understood. She stepped on his hands and he boosted her upwards. She cleared the edge of the roof to her waist and got a handhold. It was effortless to pull herself up as he lifted her from beneath. 

She looked around. The roof she was standing had a shallow incline and was lined with lead. It rose up to another ledge and then a dome. A chantry. There were stone gargoyles at the corners of the roof and ornately carved stone spines running down the edges between the lead tiles. Behind her Trevelyan grunted as he hauled himself up onto the chantry roof and she moved around the dome. On the other side she looked down into a small, fenced garden. Lanterns hung from the trees illuminating the enclosure and the small stone slab in the centre where the congregation would cremate their dead. It opened out onto a wider street. “It will take them some minutes to find their way around the streets to here.” Trevelyan said quietly as he came up beside her. He pointed across the street. “If we can make our way down that alley ahead we are almost at a warehouse owned by a man my family knows well. You can hide there.” Isehris listened without looking at him. She was scanning the street and her mind was racing. He peered over the edge of the roof. It was a long drop down with little sign of a foothold. “Now if we can only find a way down....”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. Isehris formed the spell quickly, instinctively. It had been one of the first that the warden-mages had taught her. She drew in spiritual energy and visualised a shell. Hard and flexible. Then she touched Trevelyan’s chest once. His train of speech was cut off by the glitter of light that suddenly enveloped them. He looked down at her hand, then at the gossamer light surrounding them both. “What…?” he began to ask as she jumped at him, using her weight to push him over the edge. His eyes went wide as they toppled backwards and Isehris watched the ground rush up towards them. The landing was softer than it had any right to be. The barrier spell seemed to flash bright as it took the impact, and for a heartbeat they seemed to stop just an inch above the ground. Then the spell shattered and they tumbled into bushes. Trevelyan glared up at her as she lay on top of him. “Maker’s Breath, if you don’t start telling me before you do things like that I’ll…” she cut him off with a hissed hush and a wave of her hand as she peered through the leaves. 

A man had reined in a horse at the gates of the chantry garden. Isehris could see him in the light of the lanterns and through the leaves of the bush. He was wearing plain chain mail and a sword. Yet he had no shield, no insignia and a cap instead of a helm. He sat on his horse and looked around slowly. She noted the way that he looked up at the chantry roof and peered into the garden. Isehris felt that old familiar flutter of fear and excitement as his eyes passed over the space where she was and did not see her. A silent voice in her mind urged him; ‘Move on… We’re not here… Move on.’ It was a warm, comforting sensation, like caring arms wrapped around her; protecting her. She didn’t remember a time that voice hadn’t been with her, but she did remember that it had been with her when she was Orynn’s frightened rabbit slinking in the shadows. For a long time she had thought that it was just a memory of her mother’s voice; a child comforting herself. Yet no-one had ever seen her when she heard that voice, even when her hiding place was so poor that Orynn would have punished her for choosing it. It was a long time before she had learned that she was a mage and what she had really been doing. 

The man in the woolen cap dismounted and tied his horse’s reins to the chantry’s fence, before walking into the garden. His right hand was resting on the hilt of his sword as he scanned the bushes and shrubs. Isehris cleared her mind of all else and focused on the soothing voice. “He will look away. He cannot see me.” Yet his head turned their way. He was coming closer. Trevelyan tapped her on the shoulder and nodded towards a thicket by the fence. She saw straight away what he meant. They could make their way there without exposing themselves and skirt around the man in the cap. Isehris felt cold anger twist in her belly. She wasn’t a frightened rabbit skulking in the shadows anymore. She was a grey warden. She wielded magic. She had hunted darkspawn in the deep roads. She shook her head firmly and glared at the man in the cap. She narrowed her eyes and allowed herself to see the aura flame around him; a reflection of his mind in the Fade. It burned blue and steady. At her lap she moved her hands around each other and imagined a geometric structure around his flame. Rings within rings, moving in harmony. He was almost close enough now. Quickly she stood and stepped out of cover, ignoring Trevelyan’s surprised shake of his head. The man turned to face her, half drawing his sword. At the same time she twisted her hands in a jerk and imaged the structure she had built around his aura fracturing and breaking. It was a working that would befuddle and confuse its victim. Many times before she had seen the way the aura flame span, billowed and shrank in the spiritual turbulence.

Yet this time it did not. The blue flame flared bright, blinding her though she did not see it with her eyes. The structure she had built simply evaporated and Isehris felt suddenly drained. She staggered back. Underneath the cap the man’s face was lean and long. His mouth twisted into a cruel smile. Isehris stared open-mouthed at him in shock. He didn’t utter a word. He simply drew his sword in a fluid, practiced motion and struck her on the side of the head with its pommel. Isehris’ vision exploded in stars and she crumpled to the floor. The next thing she knew she was struggling to get to her knees as her head thudded with pain and waves of nausea washed over her. She looked up at the looming figure. The world seemed to wobble and she suddenly heaved, vomiting on his feet. Shivering, she felt something cold touch her chin and push insistently upwards. She lifted her head to look up the length of a longsword. He was just a silhouette against the lantern light, filling most of her vision. “I like these boots, mage. You’ve spoiled them.” his voice had crisp, educated tones. “Now where are your friends?”

“Here!” Trevelyan’s voice was explosive as he burst from the bushes. He held his longsword high in two hands as he rushed the man in the cap and Isehris saw the blade blur down as he lunged forward. The blade tip at Isehris’ chin flashed away as the man in the cap stepped back and threw it into a high guard. He moved fast; just fast enough to get a second hand on his hilt and hold firm. Ruan came on with a step to the left and great stride to the right and two lightning quick cuts. The blades rang out as they clashed and Ruan drove on, pushing his opponent away from Isehris. The man with the cap reeled back to find firm footing, but his own sword moved deftly to parry Ruan’s attacks. He twisted his arms to push both swords high and turn his own point down at Ruan’s exposed chest. As she watched the point lunge forward Isehris had enough of her senses to realise that he was not armoured and she flinched as she anticipated the sword point biting through his ribcage. At the last moment he twisted on one foot and swept his sword to knock the attack aside. 

The two men dropped back and eyed each other, each of them coiled and tense. Ruan held his sword in two hands against his shoulder while the man in the cap held his guard forward. It was Trevelyan that struck first. He lunged forward with a strike to the right and then twisted his sword around his opponent’s parry. He came close, but the man in the cap was fast and parried again to the left. Ruan’s sword passed harmlessly by, but he kept moving and released his pommel to turn it and strike his opponent a glancing blow to the face. With his freed hand he seized the other man’s pommel and hooked the blade with his own hilt. He swept his arm around and stepped back, holding both swords. The other man stared down at his empty hands. Trevelyan ‘s fist struck him hard between the eyes and he staggered backwards into a bush. 

Isehris was regaining her feet and feeling the world spin when Ruan took her underneath the arm and held her. “Can you walk? We need to go.” he asked. She just nodded in reply and regretted it instantly. She let him lead her to the street and concentrated hard on putting one foot in front of the other. At the fence Ruan let her lean on the railings and she reached down to her belt to find a potion she kept there. She had to focus to get the cork out and then upended the flask to gulp down the concoction of elfroot. The tingling warmth quickly spread through her body and banished the nausea and throbbing pain. Ruan was untying the horse and used the flat of its rider’s sword to slap its rump and set it galloping away down the street. Then he tossed the sword into a thicket. A groan came from the bush where the man in the cap had fallen and he gestured to an alleyway further down the street. “Let’s go.”  
They ran, but Ruan stuck close by Isehris’ side. “What happened?” he asked.  
“I cast a spell on him. It shattered.” she answered. Trevelyan looked back from where they had come.  
“But that means…” They had reached the alleyway. It was narrower and ran between the stone walls of grander homes. “Can you still climb?”” he asked as he lead them to the back of the alley; a dead end.  
“Yes.”  
He crouched down and ran his fingers over the bricks. He smiled as he found something. “Still here.” he muttered and pulled a brick free. “There are loose bricks up the wall every few feet. If you pull them out you can climb up and get over.” He found a second loose brick three feet above the first. Then he put his foot into it, lifted himself up and loosened a third about ten feet above the ground. Isehris watched, glancing back at the entrance to alleyway every other second, expecting to see pursuers to appear there any moment. “How do you know about this?”  
Ruan jumped down and laughed. “A misspent youth. Don’t ask.” he looked up at one of the balconies above with a wry smile. “I suggest you get going. Once you are across the garden there is a warehouse. You should be able to hide there until this is over.”  
“You aren’t coming?”  
“It isn’t me that they’re chasing. I may be able to give you a little time.” With that he stepped back from the wall and walked towards the street. “Go. Quickly.” he turned back to urge her. Isehris hesitated and watched him, but then she put her foot into the first hole and began to climb.

**********

Ruan was leaning on the wall of the alleyway when the man from the chantry garden rounded the corner. His long, lean features were marred by a newly broken nose and blood-matted stubble. He abruptly halted when he saw Ruan waiting and his hand went to the empty scabbard at his waist. He clutched at nothing and instead took hold of the dagger at his belt. “You’re a long way from the Circle Tower, Ser.” Ruan greeted him. The other man narrowed his eyes and ran his tongue over his lip. He looked Ruan up and down. “You aren’t a warden.”  
Ruan smiled and shrugged. “I’m not an apostate or a maleficar either. Strange that you would have business with me tonight.” The long-faced man sneered and looked over Ruan’s shoulder into the alleyway. “Seems to me that your lady friend tried to lay a spell upon me.”  
“You’re right. We should find her and take her to the knight-commander immediately.” Ruan pushed off the wall to stand and then paused, stroking his chin. “Actually, I think that the knight-commander is a cousin of mine… Second cousin twice removed. Or maybe three times?” He raised his eyebrow and took a step towards the other man, meeting his eye. “I am also quite sure that he is on very good terms with the revered mother. So, if you are here, it isn’t on his orders.” He looked the long-faced man hard in the eye. “I suppose that it makes sense that Teyrn Henryk would want templars to help him catch the grey wardens and their mages. I can understand that. What I don’t know is how much coin he paid you to break your sacred vows and hire yourself out like a common sellsword. You have gone to great trouble to look like one.” he looked the other man up and down, “I wonder what the knight-commander would have to say about your moonlighting? I hear that they discipline you templars by cutting off your lyrium. Is it true what they say about the withdrawal?” He paused for a moment. The templar merely glared at him. “Or, perhaps you should walk away, go back the the Circle and I can go home and forget that we ever met.” The templar bit on his lower lip and grimaced, peeling back his lips from his teeth. Then he looked away with a bitter, crooked smile and a shake of his head. “Nobles. You people just expect the world to fall into your laps don’t you?”  
Ruan raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t expect mu….”

His words were cut off when the templar suddenly leapt at him and punched him in the gut. Ruan was pushed back up against the wall and the breath went out of him all at once. On a reflex he grabbed at the templar’s hand. Only when he looked down did he see the hilt of the knife against his doublet and a flowering dark stain spreading through it. He looked up at the leering face of the templar, wide-eyed in shock, and tried to speak. Instead he gave a gurgling cough. Pain wracked his body and there was a metallic tang of blood in his mouth.  
“You’re right that I’m not too keen for the knight-commander to hear about this, and I am sure that I will be walking away.” the templar leaned in close as he spoke, “You should have known that whatever name it is you carry doesn’t make you immortal. You wouldn’t be the first young buck to learn that the hard way on these streets.” the templar tried to twist the knife in Ruan’s belly, but Ruan gripped his hand as hard as he could. They taught techniques for ignoring and controlling pain at the Academie des Chevaliers, so that a well trained chevalier could keep fighting through wounds that would later prove fatal. None of that prepared Ruan for the helpless, blinding agony as his muscles and tendons tore around the blade. Yet he held his grip. He roared and lurched forward, connecting his forehead with the templar’s broken nose. The sound of crunching, grinding bone mingled with the templar’s yell and blood seemed to explode out of his nose. He reeled back and left the knife behind.

Ruan sobbed as he drew the knife from his belly. He pushed three fingers into the wound and couldn’t prevent himself imagining his innards spilling out. The dark, slick blade fell from his fingers to clatter to the ground and he willed himself to stand up. He tried to grip the hilt of his sword and shake it loose of the scabbard. Instead he staggered back. His knees trembled, then buckled underneath him. He didn’t even have breath to moan as he slumped against the wall. Stars fell across his vision and he blinked. When he opened his eyes he saw the templar looming over him. The knife was in his hand and his face was a mask of bloody rage. “I’m going to make you suffer for that.” he said quietly. Ruan looked up at the moon, realising that the rain had stopped and a gap in the clouds had appeared. In its light the outline of a figure was silhouetted on the balcony above them. Something was falling. 

The brick struck the templar on the crown of his head with a sickly cracking noise. His head suddenly twisted to one side and he crumpled to the ground as if he was a puppet whose strings had been cut. Ruan stared at the open, lifeless eyes and the puddle of blood spreading out underneath his cheek and time seemed to stretch endlessly. After what might have been seconds or hours he tried to sit up and screamed in agony, falling back with a sob. He looked up at the moon and listened to the rasping of his own breath. Somehow it seemed brighter and more vivid than he had ever seen it before. A silhouette appeared against it. He saw hands moving. There was a strange golden light dancing around the figure above him. It seemed to cascade down upon him like a snowfall, but it was warm and soothing. The pain melted away and he felt a smooth hand gently lifting his own and pulling his fingers from where he was torn. That hand was laid over the wound and he felt a rush of euphoria. He closed his eyes and let it all drift away.


	6. Chapter 6

Conrad had the kind of pressure bearing down on his forehead that only a stiff drink could alleviate. he had been beset with tasks that he could not postpone and problems that demanded immediate solutions for two days now. He couldn’t recall the last time that so much punctuality had been required of him and he did not like it. In fact, at that moment he found himself waiting for somebody else, yet another unaccustomed and unwelcome experience. There was also a persistent itch between his shoulder blades that he could only think of as a target waiting to have a dagger plunged into it. Still, the day was not without its mercies, for he found himself waiting in a tavern. The stiff drink in his hand was, in fact, beginning to lighten the load, suspect though the foamy brew and the thick sediment at the bottom of the bottle was. He took a swig from the glass and felt the burn run down his throat and numb his mouth. 

**********

Three days before Conrad had longed for such warmth as he marched down the Temple Hill towards the outer walls. The festive atmosphere among the militia had been more subdued on their return to camp than it had been on their way up to the cathedral; less fluttering of banners and more squelching of sodden feet in flooded boots. Conrad had lost the glow of divine inspiration at about the time that rivulets of cold water found their way into his breastplate and began to run down his back. 

As he marched, he had felt a rising, excited panic at the thought that they might in fact be about to embark for Ferelden. In days he could be at sea, leading an army. That, at least officially, had been the case for months, but Conrad realised in that moment how little he had been expecting ‘his’ militia to leave Ostwick. He had been too absorbed with playing soldiers to contemplate actually being one. He looked around at the men arrayed in marching ranks that snaked up the road behind him; His men. His next breath burned with sudden pride. It was a sensation not unlike drinking strong liquor. Conrad would not have minded taking another measure of it. Suddenly distracted from the physical discomfort. He stumbled on a mental one. Namely, all of the arrangements that would have been required if the militia truly was about to set sail for Ferelden. For weeks they had been kicking their heels on the muster ground and Conrad had put too many things off. He would need to familiarise himself with the state of the equipment, arrange ships and supply. He needed to speak to Ruan, yet Trevelyan was not in his usual position with the vanguard, just behind the grey wardens and their banner. 

That had been curious, but Conrad had known that something was amiss when they reached the city gates. At least a score of the teyrn’s guard stood before the gatehouse. The armoured men, in their green livery and closed helms, made way for the grey warden company as they entered the gatehouse, but then they stepped across the path to block the vanguard of the militia. Conrad halted and quickly waved to signal the men behind. As the ragged rhythm of their marching shuddered to a halt he heard the rumbling clatter of the portcullis dropping. The final crash made him, and several other soldiers around him, jump. There were angry shouts from some of the militia. Most of them made reference to the rain and mentioned colourful ideas about places that the people who had closed the portcullis could go and things they could do there.

Conrad strode past the vanguard to the gates and bellowed at the guardsmen. “What in the name of Andraste’s tits are you doing!? Get this gate open and let my men get to their beds!”  
They were not listening to him. Instead, the guard-captain was shouting his own orders at the people trapped in the gatehouse. “Drop your weapons and surrender! You are to be taken into custody by order of Henryk Penhaligon, Teyrn of Ostwick!” Inside the gatehouse the grey wardens were looking around them in bewilderment. They dropped their banner and their weapons started to clatter to the ground. Conrad watched, open-mouthed, and his head span. He was missing something big, and that thought gave him a creeping feeling of dread. “What’s going on here?” he heard himself say.  
Once again the guard-captain ignored him. Instead he turned to another man standing beside him. He wore no livery, just plain chain mail and a woolen cap. “Is it… Safe?” the guard-captain asked.  
The man in the woolen cap had given Conrad a sideways glance and then nodded. “Nothing yet.”

Conrad’s temper snapped at that point. He grabbed the guard captain by the arm and dragged him around to face him. Conrad stood inches over the other man and his voice boomed as he glowered down at the closed visor “You will explain to me why you have trapped my men in the driving rain, and why you have dishonoured my guests.” Conrad could have sworn that it was his father’s voice that had just spoken. It sent a shiver down his back. He could have rattled out the inevitable lecture about the honour of a nobleman’s home, guest rights and hospitality. He almost laughed aloud. The guard-captain hesitated. “The teyrn’s command, messere.” he pulled his arm and Conrad let go his grip. “I must ask for your co-operation.”  
Conrad’s voice was still a growl. “My co-operation is a little soggy at the moment, captain, along with the rest of me, and I prefer to know what it is that I am co-operating with.”  
“I understand, my lord. This won’t take long.” Conrad thought that he heard more hope than conviction behind that last statement. He stepped back and watched with a frown as the guard-captain ordered the portcullis raised. The guards moved in to surround the grey wardens. Conrad noted the man in the woolen cap, who moved in beside them, watching carefully; his sword drawn. The grey wardens were bound. It all took no more than five minutes. “Our apologies to you and your men, Bann Evenrig.” The guard-captain nodded to him as the wardens were led away beyond the gate. “Your way is clear.”

Conrad couldn’t miss the curious looks and wide-eyed whispers passing through the militia as he ordered them on. He stood by the gates as they marched by, one eye on them, the other on the guardsmen bundling the grey wardens into caged wagons by the gatehouse. He didn’t approach at first, as he did not trust himself. He waited until the angry rictus in his fists subsided. Then he took a deep breath and strode over to the guard-captain. He held himself with his back straight and leaned his hands on his hips, so that his height and broad shoulders drew the attention of the guards. “I am a man of simple tastes, captain. So I want you to explain to me in simple words why the teyrn would order the arrest of grey wardens in the middle of a blight.”

The guard-captain lifted his visor. He was a grey grizzled man with a long moustache and dark rings under his eyes. He gave a tired sigh. “In all honesty, messere, I do not know. He said that the safety of Ostwick was at stake.” Conrad scratched his beard. There was definitely something important that he was missing. He looked over at the long faced man with the woolen cap, who was standing by the caged wagon gazing intently at the bound grey wardens. “Who is he?” he asked the guard-captain. The guard-captain said nothing, but the whiskers of his moustache eloquently waggled to show his discomfort at the question. Conrad was about to ask more, when their attention was stolen by a rider galloping through gates. She yanked her horse’s reins hard to pull up the beast’s head and it slid to an ungainly halt in the mud churned up by hundreds of marching militiamen. “Guard-captain!” she cried and gestured wildly at the gates. It might have been Conrad’s imagination, but her cloak seemed to be giving off wisps of smoke. “They’re at the Dreadnaught Gate! They came with magic and fire!” 

Snapping his head around to the wardens in the cage, the man in the cap leapt up onto the wagon. He snarled at the nearest guard. “The key! Give me the key! Quickly curse you!” The bewildered guard fumbled for the key to have it snatched from his hand. The man with the cap turned it in the heavy lock and ripped open the door. He went to the nearest grey warden and yanked down their hood. Then the next. Then the next. Conrad recognised one of the men as an archer of the militia straight away. He felt a prickling down the back of his neck as he started to realise what might be happening. Where was Trevelyan? Conrad hadn’t seen him since the blessing at the cathedral had begun. When the man in the cap reached the fifth ‘warden’ he tugged at the breastplate and found the militia tunic underneath. He turned and glared at Conrad in a way that made the nobleman’s shoulders tense and his hand itch to reach for his sword. He chewed on his lip and kept his eyes on Conrad as he spoke to the guard-captain. ”You’ve been taken for a fool, captain.” He jumped down from the wagon and strode purposefully to the woman on the horse. “Get down.” he said to her without looking up. The guardswoman looked over at the guard-captain. “Get down, I said!” snapped the man in the cap. The guard-captain nodded to her and she slipped from the saddle. In a moment the man in the cap was in the saddle and tugging the tired beast’s head around towards the gate. “When I agreed to this, captain, I was assured that your men knew their business.” he growled at the guard-captain, “Try not to be even more of a disappointment.” Without another word, he rode away, back into the city. 

Conrad, the guardsmen and the ‘grey wardens’ were left behind in his wake, awkwardly staring at each other. The guard-captain wore an expression that made him look like was trying to fold his walrus moustache into his own face. His shoulders visibly hunched as he shook his head and he gave Conrad a suspicious, reproachful look. “Mertens,” he hailed the woman with the singed cloak, “Choose ten men and secure these… gentlemen here until I return.” he gestured at the counterfeit wardens.  
“Yes, captain!” the woman replied.  
“The rest of you are with me for the Dreadnaught Gate, be quick about it!” At that the rest of the guards were forming up as fast as they could. The guard-captain gave Conrad one last hard look. “It will be me asking you for the explanations when I return, Bann Evenrig.” he said and closed his visor before leading his guards away and up the hill. 

The muster ground was a subdued place during that night. Few wanted to be out of their tents. The militiamen huddled together and spoke in hushed voices. Conrad made sure to get out of his soaked armour before he made the first attempt to see the militiamen and women in the caged wagon. He was turned away by Mertens and her guards. After the third attempt at persuading her he decided not to press the matter. He went back to his tent, opened a bottle of Antivan brandy and sent all the other officers to their beds, waving away requests for any orders. By the fourth glass he was soothed enough to sleep to the lullaby of raindrops on canvas. 

In the morning the ground was a uniform dull brown that was swallowing the few tufts of green left on the field. Conrad’s boots sank inches into the quagmire as he stepped blinking into the grey morning. He went to the grey wardens’ circle of tents. They still stood where they had been, but a blind man could have seen that all the weapons and food had gone. The caged wagon had been taken away, and the city gates closed. Only the small wicket gate was left open, and a guardsman was checking each traveller that passed through. 

That was the way it stayed for the rest of the day. When he tried to pass through the gate the guards respectfully informed him that all members of the militia were to remain on the muster ground. They were even preventing the traders and entertainers from coming through to set up their stalls, so the muster ground remained drab in its mud-spattered listlessness. Conrad spent a hour batting away the questions of his officers. He briefly considered riding around to the Western gate to enter the city before he reluctantly acknowledged that he couldn’t bring himself to just walk away from his deflated and confused men. Instead he emerged from his tent to say a few words about what a fine display they had put on last night, and told them that they had earned a day of rest. Then he went back to his tent, closed the flap and opened the other bottle of brandy. The rest of the day passed in a dull haze. 

Conrad was woken by an officer shaking him by the shoulder. He showed his gratitude to her by pushing her away so violently that she staggered backwards. “I am not to be disturbed.” he mumbled and half heartedly tossed his empty goblet at her. It fell short and the expensive glass smashed on the floor. “My lord, the teyrn’s guards are here.” she insisted. That made Conrad sit up straight, or at least attempt to. He screwed his eyes shut and put the heels of his hands against them. There was clearly a family of rats attempting to claw their way out of his head through his eye sockets and he pushed back hard against them to teach them a lesson about what it meant to trifle with House Evenrig. With a great effort he hauled himself to his feet. “How many?”  
“Its hard to say, my lord… It looks like all of them.” Conrad just grunted in reply and staggered to the cot where he had thrown his last dry tunic. 

Outside of the tent the sun was rising over the sea. Its glare was like daggers as Conrad picked his way through the mud to the edge of the stockade. There, arrayed in ranks, were the green-liveried guards carrying spears and shields. There were at least three hundred. A man that Conrad recognised as the teyrn’s seneschal was sitting on a horse and reading from a scroll. “By the decree of Teyrn Henryk Penhaligon, you are forthwith discharged of your duties. You are ordered to disperse from this place within the hour and return to your own places of abode.” He signalled and two squads of guards marched forward to stand either side of the stockade gates. “All arms and armour are to be left here on the muster ground. Let none bear arms past the city gates, lest they find punishment for breaking the teyrn’s peace.” A murmur rippled through the militia at that, but the seneschal ignored it. “All Ostwick thanks you for your service.” With that he wheeled his horse around and rode away, leaving the former militiamen behind under the watchful gaze of the teyrn’s guards.

Conrad trudged back to his tent and opened up the chest beneath his table. “What do we do, Lord Commander?” asked the voice of one of his officers from behind him. He grunted as he crouched down and took a bottle of Ferelden whisky from the chest. Then he got up and walked out of the tent past the officer. He blinked in the sunlight and scowled at the guards by the stockade. “We do as we are told, of course.” he finally answered. He unbuckled his sword belt as he walked towards the stockade and threw it at the feet of the guard as he passed. Then he kept walking and loosened the cork in the bottle as he walked towards the city gates. 

**********

“It’s so good to see you, my boy!” Henryk Penhaligon rose from the table and held out his arms as Conrad entered the solar. He smiled as he clasped Conrad by the shoulders and then pulled him in for an embrace. He was almost as tall as Conrad, though not as broad. His neatly trimmed beard was dark, peppered with grey and his face was lined. He stepped back to look Conrad up and down. “You look well. I had heard that you were with a fever.”  
“Only self-inflicted, your grace.” Conrad replied. A day and a night had passed since he had left the muster ground behind and he was a good deal more presentable than he had been the day before.

Teyrn Henryk chuckled and went to the table, “Perhaps I should only give you a small cup, then?” he poured two cups of wine. The light was streaming into the solar to give a warm glow to the wood panelled room. The table was set with partridge and what smelled like freshly baked bread and, of course, wine. Conrad took the offered cup as Teyrn Henryk sat at the head of the table and gestured at the chair to his right. “Please, sit. Eat.”

Conrad sat and took a leg of partridge. “We haven’t had the pleasure of your company for some time, Conrad. Helena has missed you.” Henryk said, pausing to sip some of his wine. Conrad glanced at his own cup and left it where it was on the table. “And I her.” he responded dutifully “Will she be joining us?”  
Henryk nodded. “Perhaps later. It will be good, now that your duties will not keep you so busy, for you to see more of her. We must set a date for the wedding.” Conrad gulped down the partridge he was chewing and put his hand on his cup. Then he took it away again. “Yes… Yes. I must say that it was rather… unexpected, for my duties to end so abruptly.” Henryk’s eyes flickered to Conrad and he took a bite of his own food. He nodded mildly as he chewed and sat back in his chair. “So it was. There have been a troubling amount of unexpected things happening in the city of late.” 

He took a deep breath and regarded Conrad thoughtfully. “Tell me, Conrad, do you remember when your parents died?” Conrad dropped the leg bone of the partridge on his plate. His throat constricted and he took a long moment before answering. “Yes, your grace.” he replied thickly.  
Henryk nodded sadly. “The ocean is a cruel mistress, but one that has always brought Ostwick her life’s blood. Caspar was a great man. I miss him every day. I know that he would have been proud to see you grow into such a fine figure of a man.” Conrad nodded and took a deep draught from his cup. “I took you in as my ward because it is dearly important to me that Caspar’s legacy is continued.”  
“You have been very good to me, your grace.” Conrad muttered.  
Henryk reached out and took Conrad’s hand. “Come now, my boy. I am sorry to rake over old wounds. I just want you to understand how much I care for your prospects. These are dangerous times.”  
“Yes, your grace.” Conrad took another, deeper, drink.

“This business with the grey wardens is enough to shake a man’s faith in anything; in anyone.” Henryk said bitterly.   
“Do you really believe what they are saying about the wardens?” Conrad asked him. By now the news of Ostagar was the wildfire fuelling much gossip and speculation in places high and low across Ostwick.  
“The wardens have been tempted by worldly power before. Just look at what they did in the city two nights ago, unleashing their magic upon us? We must be on our guard, Conrad.”  
“Still, to turn on the king of Ferelden with the darkspawn threatening everyone? It beggers belief.”  
“Ask yourself how much you really know about them, Conrad. They keep themselves apart and in secret. They meddle with forbidden magic and things that mortal men were never meant to be a part of. You don’t get to my age without learning that some people are not what they seem, and that some will use our trust to their own ends. You must choose your friends carefully, my boy.”  
Conrad set his cup down. “What are you saying?”  
“Some of our own people were in league with the wardens, Conrad. Some of your own men.”  
Conrad’s jaw tightened. “I had no idea about that!”  
“I believe you. Your father knew that a great man was only as great as those who served him, and that he must learn well how to judge men. Tell me, Conrad; how well do you know Trevelyan?”  
“Ruan? Well enough. Are you still holding him?”  
“Be careful, Conrad. Trevelyan has endangered us all. He has a great name; a name with a long and honourable history, and he has put all of that in jeopardy. Caspar would turn in his grave if he thought you might let a man like that drag you down with him.”  
“My father has no grave.” Conrad was sitting straight backed now. His hand was white-knuckled on his cup, but he didn’t lift it.  
“A figure of speech, Conrad. You know what I am saying. Did you know what Trevelyan was planning?”  
“No.” Henryk fixed him with a long look. “No.” he repeated, firmly. 

Henryk sat back in his seat and sighed. He closed his eyes. “You do not know how relieved I am to hear that, my boy. You are very dear to me… and to my daughter. I would have hated to see you as anything other than a witness at the trial.”  
“Trial? There is to be a trial.”  
Henryk nodded. “There must be. We have to lance this boil so that that Ostwick can stand together against whatever is coming next.”  
“But if the wardens have gone, surely there is no need to drag this out. Ruan is no traitor. If anything he was only doing….”  
Teyrn Henryk cut Conrad off with a tone of steel in his voice. “Young Trevelyan will get his say in court. If he has acted in good faith and speaks the truth he will have justice. That is his choice. You must make yours too, Conrad. I beg you, do not let Caspar’s name be besmirched. Stand with me and see justice done.” Conrad sat stock still as a wave of nausea washed over him. He lifted his cup and took another drink, then nodded. “Yes, your grace.”

**********

Later that same day Conrad was sitting in a booth in a dockside tavern. He took another swig of the foamy liquor. The sediment lay thick at the bottom of the glass. He closed his eyes as the burn ran down his throat. When he opened his eyes he saw his appointment weaving through the tables towards him. She was tall and wore a hooded cloak over a plain blue dress that marked her as a woman of the artisan class. As she sat Conrad could see that she had hazel eyes and ash blonde hair. He poured her a glass of the fierce liquor. “Ah… Sergeant Mertens. It is good to see you again. Have a drink.”  
“Keep your voice down, you fool!” she hissed at him and wagged her head around like a frightened rabbit.   
“Well if anyone is suspicious of us, serah, it isn’t because of me. Could you try to look a little more furtive? I’m not sure the people on the other side of the tavern noticed how nervous you are.”  
“Are you drunk?”  
He laughed. “If you can’t tell then I will feel good about myself, either way.” She hissed a curse under her breath. “This was a mistake.” she started to rise from her seat.  
Conrad reached out swiftly and grabbed her wrist. His grip was strong. “The mistake would be walking out now. I saw Nebless Ted’s ledger. You really are an impressively bad card player aren’t you?”  
Mertens sat back down, glaring at him. Though she was dressed as an artisan’s wife, the scar across her nose betrayed the fact that she was a warrior. She angrily took the glass and knocked back the drink. Conrad continued. “Thank you, my lady. You know, when this is all over I would be happy to give you some lessons in wicked grace. My ledger with Nebless is in the black. You’ll need to mask your feelings much better than you are at the moment, for a start.” he paused, “That’s if you accept my proposal and allow me to clear your debts with dear old Ted.”   
“What do you want, my lord?” she growled the honorific as if it was an insult.  
He laughed again. “Neither you nor I have have all night, sergeant, so let’s not get into that. Instead, why don’t you start telling me about the man in the woolen cap?”


	7. Chapter 7

It was dark when Ruan opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure how long he had been in the cell without the light of day to mark the passage of time. Nor did he truly recall how he had arrived there. He had vague, delirious memories of being picked up and dragged away on shambling feet. Somehow, those memories seemed less real to him than the image of a being of light above him as he bled out his life onto the cobbles, or the tiny lights that played and danced around him as he was carried away, yet no-one else had seemed able to see. He remembered being constantly on the verge of laughter. Yet now he couldn’t say what he had found so amusing. Those moments all seemed very distant now as he awoke, stiff and aching on a pile of filthy straw, as if they had happened to someone else. He blinked and gasped and clutched at his stomach, afraid to find hot, wet pain there. Instead he found nothing but his own skin under a torn shirt and a dull, subsiding ache like a strained muscle. 

He pulled himself up and sat as his eyes adjusted to what dim light there was. The walls of the cell glistened damp and oppressively close. Ruan was able to stand in the cell with his arms outstretched, but only barely. He could see beyond the bars of the door only a few feet and could make out only the outline of a wall and the flagstones of the floor. There was a bucket in the corner that he knew more by its stench than by its shape. He was still wearing the same arming doublet and shirt, though now they were stained dark with dried blood and rank with the stink of old rainwater, sweat and worse. He was shackled with a chain between his wrists and another between his ankles. By the growth of his stubble Ruan reckoned that it was more than a day since he had been stabbed. 

A sudden thought struck him then and he patted his chest. He could feel nothing through the shirt. He lifted it and ran his hand around. The leather thong and his ring were gone. His hand shook and he got down on his knees to run his hand over the floor in the dark. He rummaged desperately in the straw long past the moment he knew it was futile. Finally, reluctantly he gave up and flopped down onto his back. He bashed his head once against the stones and yelled out a wordless cry.

Thirst ran its parchment hand up and down his throat and his head was light. Some time ago a guard had walked past and dished up a cup of water and a hunk of stale bread. He took one slow breath; then another. The breathing exercise gave measurable shape to time in the darkness, and gave him a focus to busy his mind. He started to count his breaths. It helped him a little to push away gnawing thoughts; such as the memory of his sister warning him that he would be taken prisoner. He had laughed it off then. This had been part of the plan. It was necessary. He was just where he needed to be. He had joked about her living with the shame when she came to get him out. That joke didn’t seem so funny anymore. The revered mother had not denied that they would come to free him and his soldiers, but she hadn’t exactly confirmed it either.

Time stretched on in this way. The guard brought bread and water once more. They didn’t sate Ruan’s thirst and hunger, but their edge was dulled for a short time. Another stretch of time later Ruan heard the thud of a bolt sliding aside and the echo of footsteps rang down the dark corridor. Torchlight flickered on the wall and grew steadily brighter as the footsteps became louder. Two armoured men opened Ruan’s cell and barked at him to “Get up, and be quick about it!” He did as he was told and was led away between the guards, shuffling with steps only as long as the chain between his legs would allow. They took him up a spiral staircase. The shackles caused him to stumble once and the guards caught between their arms and dragged back up. 

He was led to a room with a tall ceiling. There was light streaming in through a small barred window high above. In the centre of the room was a table with a chair on either side of it. A few other stools were placed around the room. Teyrn Henryk Penhaligon sat at the opposite side of a table, wearing a simple green doublet trimmed with black fur. In front of him was a jug, a cup and a plate with a hunk of bread and half a roasted partridge. Ruan could smell the rich warmth of the fresh-baked bread mingling with the garlic and herbs of the roast bird. His mouth watered and his stomach grumbled as he was led to the table and sat down. The guard unlocked the chain at the shackle on his left wrist and ran it through iron loops fixed into the table. Then the chain was reattached to the shackle. Teyrn Henryk watched as he tore the leg from the partridge. “My guards insisted on precautions.” he said as he took a bite, pausing to chew and swallow. Ruan filled the pause with a question. “Do you think I mean you harm, your grace?” 

“We hear so many stories of the things a trained chevalier is capable of. I hope you understand.” Henryk replied and held the partridge leg out. Ruan’s stomach griped and growled as he looked at the warm food, and all thought of refusing it evapourated. After all, the teyrn had very pointedly taken a bite of it himself. Cautiously, he reached out with his right hand to take it. As he did his left was drawn down to the iron loops. “I am not a chevalier.” he said before he leaned his face down to his hand to take a bite. The meat was rich, warm and delicious. He forced himself to take only a small bite and take his time in chewing it. He did not want the teyrn to see him gnaw at the bone like a starving dog. Henryk smiled and nodded in reply. “Of course. I did hear that you left Orlais under a cloud.” Ruan made no reply to that, and took another bite of partridge. Henryk tore off a chunk of the bread and popped it into his mouth before pushing the plate towards Ruan. Then he leaned back in his chair and chewed the bread as he regarded Ruan thoughtfully. “I wonder… Is that why you were so insistent that we should send our militia to Ferelden?” he asked. “Are you looking for some glory to redeem yourself, Ser?”

Ruan kept himself very still by a force of will. The pain is an illusion. The sword is real. With as much graceful manners as he could muster with his hands bound he tore off a chunk of bread and chewed it slowly. Then he answered. “I may not be a chevalier, your grace, but I have training as you say. I did not want to stand idle when that could be put to good use in helping Ferelden fight for its life.”  
Henryk responded swiftly. “And you would have seen men of Ostwick fighting for our life too?”  
“If Ferelden falls we certainly will be. The blight threatens all of us.”  
“You are very quick to believe the grey wardens when they tells us that this is a new blight.”  
“And you seem very quick to believe the lies told about them, your grace.” Henryk arched his brow at that and Ruan knew that he had cut back too quickly. Quite apart from the disrespect they showed to his liege lord, ill considered words were like arrows loosed without aiming and just as impossible to take back. If he had not learned that in Orlais he had learned nothing at all. Henryk allowed the silence, and Ruan’s discomfort, to stretch on. He poured water from the jug into the cup with a steady trickle. “So certain of the grey wardens are you, chevalier?” he said and took a sip from the cup before placing it down in front of Ruan. “King Cailan was certain of them, too. Now he is dead. This would not be the first time that they had tried to seize Ferelden’s throne.” 

Ruan did not answer. He looked down at the cup and weighed his parched thirst against the indignity of stooping down to drink from it in his shackles. His thirst won out and he leaned down to drink, barely restraining himself from downing the whole cup at once. Teyrn Henryk sighed and shrugged. “Nevertheless it matters little what you or I think. Whatever happened at Ostagar it put an end to your little exalted march. What matters now is what the people of Ostwick believe.”  
“Surely they will not believe that all this was a conspiracy by the grey wardens?” Ruan replied.  
Henryk shrugged again, “Some certainly will. Others may not. Fewer will doubt it if you stand up and tell them just that.”  
Ruan almost choked on the meat he was chewing. “Me?! Why in the Maker’s name would I do that?”  
“Because I asked you to.” The teyrn continued mildly, leaning forward to meet Ruan eye to eye. “You are a clever young man, Trevelyan. You must see that Ostwick is a cauldron. The price of bread has doubled since the troubles in Ferelden began. Half of the guilds complain that I am doing too little against the blight. The other half complain that even speaking of it hurts their trade. I have the retainers of noble houses brawling with each other in the streets over whether we should march to Ferelden. Yesterday they all learned the news from Ostagar. They are afraid. It won’t take much to make it all boil over. The city needs order, and you can help me provide it.”  
Ruan looked incredulous, “By telling them that the grey wardens are plotting against us?”  
“By giving them an enemy that they can understand instead of faraway monsters and the end of the world.” Henryk leaned back in his chair again and half smiled. “I must admit that I was angry when I learned that the wardens had escaped, but perhaps it is better that they are gone where they cannot confuse our people any further. The way that you gulled my men was impressive, by the way. The real wardens were with the militia, weren’t they? In disguise, I think?” Ruan said nothing as Henryk studied his face with a wry smile. The teyrn nodded. “Yes. I think that was it. An obvious fake company at the head of the militia; a loud distraction at the Dreadnaught Gate, meanwhile the wardens quietly gathered their things and slipped away in the night while we chased our tails. Clever.” The teyrn sounded genuinely amused. As he finished speaking Ruan took the opportunity to fill his mouth with warm partridge and bread, which also allowed him to lower his face to the table and hide his expression. He chewed the food slowly. Henryk watched him and laughed.

“Very well, you don’t have to tell me yet, but I will swear to give you my finest horse as a gift if you will swear on the chant of light that I am wrong.”  
“I had no idea that you were one for a wager, your grace.” Ruan replied. Teyrn Henryk laughed again. It was a deep belly laugh that reminded Ruan of Conrad. “I could use a man like you, Trevelyan.” he declared, “I need people of quality and talent to help me steer Ostwick through this crisis. Frankly I am surprised that your father hasn’t already farmed you off to the chantry or the templars, but I am glad that he hasn’t. You could rise high in my service, Ser Ruan, and I will wager that I can offer you more than a sunburst robe and a lifetime of celibacy.”  
“You flatter me, your grace.”  
“Now, now. No false modesty, Trevelyan. Let the priests hide their pride and ambition beneath pious platitudes. It becomes people like you and I to wear it without shame, like honest men.”  
Ruan finished his cup of water and the teyrn refilled it. He took another deep drink. “And all this honest man needs to do is perjure myself spinning a tale of a grey warden conspiracy?” he said as he set the empty cup down. The teyrn sighed, “You could stand before the court and speak nothing but the truth of what has happened and still convict the wardens in the minds of many in the city, and yourself along with them. Oh, no doubt, you could convince some that your cause was just with your tales of daring, but not all. Tell me who benefits while the city tears itself apart arguing whether to hang you or crown you champion? Not you, for one, and certainly not Ostwick.” Henryk leaned forward. “I am asking you to serve your city, and serve yourself at the same time. The tale is already well woven, Ser Ruan, you need only add a few more threads and the whole city will see you as a hero; a noble warrior whose good intentions were used against him by the wardens and their cohorts.” 

A shiver ran down Ruan’s spine. It seemed to him that the teyrn had put just a touch of hungry venom behind the word ‘cohorts’. Yet he looked down at his food and took another bite, allowing Henryk to continue. “There will have to be some token punishment, but you will be under my protection. You could be a symbol of pride to Ostwick.”  
Ruan rubbed his stubbled chin and leaned back. “And what of these… cohorts of the wardens?”  
Henryk twisted a silver ring on his finger and watched Ruan’s face carefully. “They will have the same choice as you have. If they are with me they will have my protection. I have no desire to start a witch hunt. All I want is to restore the order that Ostwick needs.”

Ruan shook his head, more out of disbelief than in refusal. “If that is what you want, why choose this lie? Darkspawn hordes are marching through Ferelden. Use that to unite us!”  
“It is too late for that.”  
“It cannot be too late! We may have to fight them at our own walls before to long. You are our leader. You could call us to arms; give us courage and hope.”  
Henryk’s laugh was dry and brittle. “I had forgotten how young you are.” he said, “Do you really think that people will thank you for pointing out the horrors on the horizon now that they have an enemy at their door that they can imagine, but never have to fight? You would offer them blood, sweat, toil and tears? They want something to tut about in the tavern. No, my boy. They will not thank you. They will hate you for it. Better to give them a dummy to burn in the marketplace and let them go home to their beds feeling themselves righteous.”

For a moment Ruan couldn’t speak. His mouth was dry and he felt sick to his stomach. “That’s what you want.” he said after a long silence, looking at the teyrn as if seeing him for the first time. “You want them all hunting in dark corners for traitors. Anything but looking up and asking themselves what they should be doing; what you should be doing.” Ruan felt his voice rising as he spoke. “You’ll starve them of hope and feed them lies and make them all frightened cattle that you can herd at your enemies. Tell me, your grace, who is on your list for your purge? Or haven’t you decided yet? If you want me to help you pour this poison down the throats of our people why don’t you just put a knife in my hands and make me an assassin? I might suggest putting some ground deathroot into the granaries. You could kill us all a lot faster that way.” he was breathing heavily and his jaw was set. A tangle of things unsaid pushed at the back of his throat begging to be spoken. “Thank you for the meal, but suddenly I have lost my appetite. The air in here has grown quite foul.”

Teyrn Henryk glowered at Ruan. “What a waste. You disappoint me, Trevelyan.”  
Ruan laughed bitterly, “I have a talent for it.”  
“If you are so determined, then we will have a wager, you and I.” Henryk’s voice was quiet, but there was a new weight to it. “I cannot stop you if you choose to stand up in court and defend what you have done, and defend the grey wardens. I will wager that Ostwick will hate you for it. They will hate you for shaming them and making them afraid. Be certain before you accept my bet. It is not only your life that you are gambling. If you lose, and it is my court… you will lose… If you lose then I will have your head as a traitor. Rest assured that I will not stop there. It will be my duty to dig out all of your co-conspirators. Those men and women in the cells below will follow you to the block. Then anyone connected to you. I know that Bann Trevelyan is a proud and courageous man. No doubt he will try to shield you. It is a shame that he will endanger himself and his family by doing so. You have even entangled Conrad in all of this.” Henryk’s voice was quiet as a knife, “for that I will not forgive you.”

Ruan’s blood ran cold in his veins as Henryk shrugged and smiled at him. “Or perhaps you do not want to take my wager? Perhaps you will choose to confess your treachery. That at least would allow you to control who is and who is not to be denounced in this shameful plot. Perhaps we need look no further than you to cut out this canker. Then I may give you a swift end, Ser Ruan. You really would not enjoy it if I chose to drag it out.” Ruan did not answer. The teyrn took the half eaten meal from in front of him and stood. “I shall have to take my leave of you now, Ser Ruan. I have another guest coming to take luncheon with me. Please take the time to ponder your choice.” 

**********

Ruan sat in the darkness of his cell, alone with his thoughts. He had been left with much time for thinking in the two days since the teyrn’s visit. He was starting to regret the foolish pride that had stopped him wolfing down the whole plate of food that the teyrn had brought, for he had only been fed twice in the time since then, and only on stale bread and water. The hunger was just one of a series of discomforts which included the damp chill of the cell, the filthy straw that did little to cushion the cold hard stone floor as he sat or slept, the rich, complex odor of the place and the occasional rat that he knew either by its skittering patter, its squeeks, or a tentative nibble at his clothes or his digits. He had found that he could almost forget the rest of these inconveniences if he focused on just one at a time. At the moment hunger was king. 

Yet as much as he regretted the lost half meal he had left uneaten to preserve his precious dignity, he regretted the loss of his ring far more. His index finger felt strange. For six years it had rarely been without that twist of smooth ivory, its two ends carved intricately into the shape of horses’ heads. His thumb still unconsciously rubbed the side of his index finger every so often, expecting to find the shapes he could make out as much by touch as by sight. 

He had first seen that ivory when he was seventeen, full of excitement as he rode under the great, green canopy of the Southern Dales. He had barely completed his first year at the University of Orlais and to be chosen to assist in an expedition led by Professeur du Plessis was a singular honour. To that day Ruan could not explain how he had got so close to the giant without noticing it. Perhaps he really had been an oblivious boy caught up in the wonder of ancient places and the confident impunity of adolescence. Then again, the great hulking beast had moved more quietly than its size seemed to make possible. At first he had taken it for a strange rock formation. Then it had started to stride towards him alarmingly quickly. 

Back in Val Royeaux they had still been displaying the carcasses of the dragons which had attacked the city two years before. Yet even the hours Ruan had spent studying them had not prepared him for the experience of meeting a living monster. The ivory of the giant’s tusks had not been white when he had first seen it. It was a dirty yellow, and mottled with dark dried blood. He had given many thanks in the years since for the hours spent in the saddle as a child. For it was only his skill as a horseman that had allowed him to stay ahead of the giant in the dark forest. That, and the courage and quick thinking of an elven carpenter. Meniol was a veteran of the professeur’s expeditions and well versed in turning his crafts to the eccentric tasks du Plessis demanded of him. When the other workers on the scaffold had panicked and fled at the sight of the tusked monstrosity, he had known just where to cut the ropes to bring the whole thing crashing down on its head. Ruan had tried to tell the rest of the expedition so as they had congratulated him for bringing down the giant afterwards, yet it was as if they couldn’t hear him. Instead they had presented him with the giant’s tusks as a trophy and Meniol had been given a pat on the back and the task of rebuilding the scaffolding. 

Ruan had been discreet when he had given the tusks to Meniol. “I owe you my life and I know it isn’t much but I thought that they might be worth something. If you sold them, that is.” Meniol had just laughed at him good-naturedly and thanked him. No thanks had ever embarrassed Ruan more. In the weeks of the expedition Meniol had got to laugh at Ruan many more times as he hung around the camp watching him work and seeking useful things to do other than follow around the professeur as an ornamental sounding board. 

It wasn’t until they had returned to Val Royeux that Ruan had learned just how much the giant’s tusks could be worth to Meniol and his family. The elf had approached him and Ruan could remember how all the easiness in his manner had disappeared once they were inside the city walls. Gone was Meniol’s easygoing laughter and he was full of ‘my lords’ and ‘if it please yous’ as he haltingly asked him if he would do a favour for him. Meniol had asked him to be the go-between in sale of the giant’s tusks. He could not meet his buyer in person. No lord would ever pay an elven craftsmen the price he would give a human, and so Ruan had become the vendor of a fine pair of intricately carved giant tusks. They were a truly masterful work carved in two arching battle scenes, made to commemorate the deeds of an Orlesian nobleman’s ancestor; the exalted march on the Dales rendered in gleaming white ivory. 

Ruan had taken the payment, a handsome sum, to Meniol’s home in the elven slums himself. He had been surprised to learn how close it was to his lodgings in the home of the du Rondval family, and yet how different. Meniol was prosperous for an elf, yet he, his wife and eleven children crowded into a small, ramshackle house. The money must have seemed like a king’s ransom to them. That was when Meniol had given him the ring, carved from the tip of a giant’s tusk, and insisted that Ruan should stay to take a meal with them. Meniol’s youngest daughter, Siella, a child of two winters, had crawled up onto his knee wanting to play with the ring. She had grinned and held it up to him and said “Horsey.” nodding with great meaning. 

In the years since, Ruan had only ever removed the ring to fasten it around his neck when he needed his hands free to wield a sword effectively. So, too, had he only once returned to Meniol’s home. It had been almost five years later, on his last night in Val Royeaux. On that occasion he had come running and had burst through the door. There had been blood on his blade and he was covered in soot and grime. There had been horsemen not far behind him and there was so little time to get them all out. Siella would have been six years old. This time she had run from him and hidden under the bed as he begged her to come out. She had clawed at the floor and wailed in terror as he dragged her out. He must have seemed like a giant with bloodstained tusks to her, just another ravening monster come to destroy her home. Try as he might, he could never stop that memory coming to him whenever he remembered Siella toying with a small ring of ivory, now lost. Some pain was much more than just an illusion. 

When the guards came for Ruan the tears had long dried on his face and he was left with a kind of calm certainty. They took him to a room where they stripped him naked, threw a bucket of icy water over him and gave him some plain but clean clothes. He was well aware that they were making him presentable for public display. It would not do to let people think that the prisoner had been mistreated. He knew now just what he would say. A small part of him wondered whether Teyrn Henryk would still favour him if he told the lies he wanted. He rather doubted it. That was one bridge, at least, that he did not regret burning. As he was led up a staircase to the upper levels of the Principia he heard the trumpets and drums calling the teyrn’s court to order. Ruan lowered his head and muttered softly under his breath. 

“You who stand before the gates,  
You who have followed me into the heart of evil,  
The fear of death is in your eyes; its hand is upon your throat.  
Raise your voices to the heavens. Remember:  
Not alone do we stand on the field of battle.”

Then he started towards the doors of the great hall. They were playing his song. It was time to dance to the music.


	8. Chapter 8

Tamsyn swept along the cloister at a brisk pace. Her long vestments billowed behind her. She wore her cap and wimple, drawing her flame red hair up and covering it from view. She was well aware of how this helped to mask her youth and lend her an air of authority. There were plenty inside and outside of the chantry that looked askance at her rise through the chantry to become the revered mother’s personal secretary, and that she was tipped to be ordained as Mother before she reached the age of thirty. All knew that, even with her family wealth and connections, she had only risen so far and so fast due to the patronage of Revered Mother Thelois. At times this was a blessing. At others this was a curse. At the corner of the cloister near the doors to the chapter house she stopped in her tracks. Three acolytes sat on the low wall under the arch of the cloister. Their voices were relaxed as they talked and broke up a breadcake to share between them. They were only a few years younger than Tamsyn, but the way that they laughed and absently swung their legs underneath themselves made them seem like children to her. Had she really been like that just a few short years ago?

One of the girls spotted her and jumped to her feet as if she had been prodded with a stick. The others swung their heads around and followed a heartbeat later. Briefly, Tamsyn felt as though she was the one that had been caught. She quickly swallowed that and stiffened her back and her brow. “Sister Tamsyn…” stammered one of the girls and bowed her head. The other two aped her.  
“I very much doubt that you have so little to do at this time of the morning that you have time to sit around gossiping.” Tamsyn’s voice whipped. She strode forward and snatched the remnant of the breadcake from the hand of one of the girls. “Wherever did you get this from?” She let the silence stretch out as she cast her gaze across them. Each one looked at her feet rather than meet Tamsyn’s steely grey eyes. Those eyes fell upon a blonde girl in the middle whose brow sparkled with beads of perspiration. “Aleida. You were to bring the revered mother her tea this morning. Are you in the habit of filching food from her Reverence’s plate?” She held up the piece of cake as evidence.  
Aleida squirmed and shook her head emphatically. “No Sister! She was not there!”  
“So you only steal when noone is there to see you? Is that it?” Tamsyn snapped.  
“No! That isn’t what I meant… She wasn’t there this morning. She always takes her bread freshly baked and chides us if we bring it to her cold. It would only have gone to waste.”

Several retorts to cut off the acolyte’s excuse occurred to Tamsyn, but she did not reply. She was far too struck by the revelation that Thelois was not in her private rooms. In all the years that Tamsyn had known her she had always taken her tea at just this time of the morning. If there had been some deviation from the daily clockwork of the cathedral, she would have expected to know. “She was not there, you say? Were you late?”  
“No, Sister Tamsyn.”  
“There was no word of where she was?”  
“No, Sister Tamsyn.”

Without another word Tamsyn left the acolytes and swept on down the cloister. A small corner of her mind berated herself for leaving them with no further chastisement. Yet it was a brief and passing thought. It had been two days since the escape of the grey wardens; two days since she had last heard from her brother; two days that had passed in perfect, mechanical routine that belied the tension in the city around the cathedral and the people within it. Usually that predictable, well managed life was a source of empowerment and comfort to Tamsyn, but no word had been spoken of what had passed during the blessing of the militia and that silence was deafening her. Suddenly even this tiny break from the routine felt like a gaping fissure. 

Tamsyn knocked on the door to the small private chamber adjoining the chapter house that was maintained for the revered mother and waited a heartbeat before entering. The room faced South towards the sea and the morning sun picked out the motes of dust in the air as it streamed in through the tall windows and basked the revered mother’s desk in warmth. The usual pile of papers sat on the desk. Tamsyn would normally be sitting there and sifting through the correspondence and accounts in order to summarise them for Thelois. The pot of tea sat beside it, still warm to the touch and full. Thelois’ mitre and mantle were still on the stand in the corner. 

From the private chamber Tamsyn walked through the cloisters to the nave of the cathedral. There were always some worshippers in its cavernous space, congregated in the small chapels on its fringes or kneeling to pray by the holy brazier whose flames were never left to die. So there were usually at least one or two priestesses to be found here, ministering to the faithful. The revered mother, though, was nowhere to be seen. Passing on through the great doors of the cathedral she walked to the stables which opened up onto a side street beside the square. Here the chantry kept a few horses and carriages for the use of the clerics. She hailed a groom, a man of middle years dressed in the plain and practical robes of a lay brother, as he raked straw from one of the stalls. “Have any of the carriages been taken out this morning?”  
He scratched his stubbled chin, “Aye. Her Reverence took the covered trap out. It was fair early. We didn’t get to give the mares their feed.”  
“Where was she going?”  
The groom blinked and looked askance. Clearly being quizzed about the movements of the revered mother by her personal secretary was something that made him uncomfortable. “I’m sure that I don’t know, Sister. I just keep the horses and tack in order.”  
Tamsyn nodded absently. “Of course. Thank you, Brother.” The groom nodded and muttered an acknowledgement as she turned away. She chewed on the end of her thumb and prowled around in a circle, trying to think. After a full turn she looked up self-consciously. The groom kept his eyes firmly down on the straw and did not look up. With no other course occurring to her, she left and returned to the revered mother’s private study and her appointed tasks. 

She threw herself into the familiar routine of the day; tasks at their appointed time; people and things in their appointed place. Yet her mind buzzed with the questions that had no answers. Where was the revered mother? Where was her brother? What was going on beyond the walls of the cathedral were Ostwick fermented in a stew of confusion, rumours and innuendo. Time passed at an uncertain, stuttering pace between focus and distraction until she was interrupted by a knock at the door. As she opened it she found Aleida waiting for her. “Has the revered mother returned?” Tamsyn asked  
Aleida blinked in reply, “Ahm... No, Sister… There is a message for you. Bann Evenrig is in the cathedral. He wishes to speak with you.”  
Tamsyn opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Then she closed the door. She looked around the room as if she could find an answer somewhere in its contents. Her mouth was dry. Abruptly she stamped her foot and turned to wrench the door open angrily. “Tell Bann Evenrig that I am far too busy with my duties to see him now. Tell him that exactly.” The door slammed shut again and she returned to her work. Suddenly the latest encyclical from the Grand Cleric in Kirkwall and the detailed accounts of the chantry foundation at Elmross and its estates became very absorbing.

Some time passed in concentration before the door of the private chambers opened. Tamsyn growled and shouted, "I told you that I was too busy!" She glowered at the door and found Revered Mother Thelois standing there. She was wearing simple, plain vestments and her head was tilted quizzically to the side. "I don't recall you ever telling me that, my dear, no matter how much I lean on you to assist me."  
The colour drained from Tamsyn's face and she rose to her feet. "Your Reverence!.. You... You weren't here."  
Thelois chuckled, "I am glad that I have not delegated so much to you that my absence can still be noticed." She walked to Tamsyn and looked up at her. "Are you well, my dear? You don't seem yourself."  
Tamsyn almost laughed. "My brother is missing. You disappeared without warning. The whole city is on the verge of going mad and Maker alone knows what is happening across the sea. The whole world is not itself!"  
Thelois nodded, "Yes. I am sorry that I have had to place so much pressure upon you. I do have some news for you, at least. Though you may not like it."  
Tamsyn tensed. "Is it Ruan? Is he alive?"  
"Peace, child. Patience. Sit." Tamsyn reluctantly obeyed. "Yes. He is alive. Teyrn Henryk has him and his soldiers as prisoners. He has had them for two days."  
Tamsyn rested her head on her hands. She did not know whether to be relived or anxious. "Then why no word?"  
"The quiet allows rumours to spread, and that suits him. He means to put them on trial."  
Tamsyn had expected something of that kind, but hearing it felt like a lead weight dropped into her stomach. Until a few moments ago she had feared that her brother was dead. Now it seemed that she might have been right. "We have to get them out."

Thelois did not answer at first. She walked to the window and looked out across the city. "I understand your feelings, my dear. I share them; but how do you imagine that we might do that?"  
"We have to! Ruan is a prisoner because he was doing what we sent him to do."  
"Was he?" Thelois spoke without looking at Tamsyn, "It was his own plan, and he knew what he risked."  
Tamsyn shook her head. "No. Not this. He could be executed."  
"I pray it will not be so."  
"We have to stop this!"  
Thelois sighed and turned to face Tamsyn. She looked very tired, almost waxen, as she leaned on her stick. "You are one of my brightest students, Tamsyn. So tell me; how can we stop this?"  
"We could demand his release."  
"On what grounds?"  
Tamsyn wracked her mind and pushed the wimple back on her head as she gripped a tuft of her hair. Instead of answering the revered mother's question she tried another tack. "We could defend them at their trial."  
"Against charges of attacking the teyrn's soldiers and abetting the escape of dangerous fugitives? He is guilty of those charges."  
"We are guilty of those charges!" Tamsyn shouted.  
"Exactly." there were red rims around Thelois' pale eyes. "I am afraid that young Ser Ruan is the bait in a trap that Henryk has set for us, my dear. We cannot afford to take the bait."  
Tamsyn felt sick and sank back into her chair. She looked up into the eyes of her mentor in a way she had not since she had been confirmed in her vows; a look of pleading. "He is my brother."  
"Henryk is counting on that, my girl." Thelois replied. "What do you imagine will happen if Henryk can accuse us of plotting against him?" Tamsyn made no answer and the silence stretched on.  
"How long?" she asked at length.  
"A day. Perhaps two." the revered mother answered. It was another lead weight dropped upon her. She had expected an answer of weeks. For a moment she reflected that perhaps it would be kinder to get it over with. Then she immediately hated herself for the thought.

A moment later there was a knock on the door. "Come." called Thelois. The door opened and a nervous Abelie entered.  
"I am sorry your Reverence, but Bann Evenrig says that it is very urgent."  
"Urgent, my arse! A matter of life and death is what I said!" Conrad Evenrig strode past the acolyte and into the chambers without any further introduction. He checked himself for a heartbeat when he noticed the revered mother. He coughed and removed his hat. "Ahm. I beg your pardon your Reverence." he mumbled awkwardly. Simply invoking the honorific of the revered mother gave her power. Any cleric of experience knew well how to use silence as well as their voice, and Thelois let that silence stretch on, knowing that only her word could end it. 

Yet even in that exalted presence Tamsyn could only look at Conrad. She did not know how many times she had looked at that door and imagined him bursting in just as he had. Now it had happened at this of all moments. She had to wonder whether she could trust her senses and was not actually daydreaming once again. Thelois’ shrewd eyes upon her snatched Tamsyn’s attention and she felt her cheeks prickle cold with embarrassment and shame. It was hard to shake the impression that the revered mother knew her thoughts. Thelois raised an eyebrow and her eyes flickered from Tamsyn to Conrad and back again. “Perhaps it would be best if you retired to your room, my dear. I know that it has been a trying day.”

Tamsyn snapped her head up as though she had been slapped. Then she set her brow and cleared her throat. She was Sister Tamsyn Trevelyan, personal secretary to the revered mother of Ostwick, not some silly girl. She rose to her feet. “That will not be necessary, your Reverence.” she turned to Conrad and deliberately lifted her chin. “I suppose that you have a good reason for such a disrespectful display in the house of the Maker, Bann Evenrig?” She noted the way that Conrad’s expression flickered and remained slack for a moment and part of her felt satisfaction at a palpable hit, but only part of her. Then Conrad set his own stubbled jaw hard. “Aye, Sister, I do. I am here to pull my soldiers and your brother out of the Maker-forsaken pit you have left them in.”

“We… I…” Tamsyn stammered and pressed her fingernails into her palm in the way she had learned when training herself to keep a steady voice before a congregation of thousands. “If you are insinuating something about the incident with the grey wardens…”  
“Insinuating?!” Conrad cut her off. “No. This is a different thing we poor layfolk call bloody well saying it!”  
“I am sure that if the noble bann chose to express himself in something other than bellowing and cursing I could better understand his meaning.” Tamsyn sliced back at him.  
Conrad scowled and took a step forward, “Then allow me to spell it out, Sister. I am talking about you plotting behind my back to use my men in your scheme with the grey wardens, and now you have abandoned them to the tender mercies of Teyrn Henryk. Is that clear enough? I even managed a whole sentence without a profanity.”  
“Yes. Well done, you.” Tamsyn replied. “Even if the Chantry were to deign to reply to whatever it is you think that you know, it is not your place to question what we do in the interests of our whole flock. Nor does the Maker abandon those who serve him faithfully.”  
“Maker!” Conrad snorted, “They really have made a cleric of you haven’t they, Tamsyn. You have the platitudes and sanctimony down perfectly.”  
“I am a cleric, Bann Evenrig. As you well know. Perhaps it would do you good to listen to some of those ‘platitudes’ for once in your life.”  
“Yes, Sister. Three bags full, Sister. I’ll go away and say my prayers like a good little boy.”  
“Now that you have degenerated to childishness once again, perhaps you are finally finished? Good day, Bann Evenrig.”  
She turned away from him and was halfway sat at her desk when Conrad exploded. “Damn you, Tamsyn! Why didn’t you talk to me? Not one word while you and Ruan had me march up and down the hill like an idiot! Was he scheming with you the whole time?”  
“And what if he was?” Tamsyn shouted back, “At least my brother can be trusted to do the things he says he will! Did it occur to you that we needed somebody we could rely upon to actually turn up?”  
  
And there it was. The quiet after the echoes of Tamsyn’s voices had bounced around the vaulted ceiling was deafening. Tamsyn and Conrad stared at each other and suddenly there was nothing else left to say. That was the moment when the revered mother spoke, quietly, from where she had receded to the window seat. “I sympathise deeply with those of your militia who seem to have fallen foul of injustice, Bann Evenrig. Sadly there are times when all that we can do is pray to the Maker. Yet sometimes he provides us with the means for us to help ourselves and others. You suggested that you wanted to help those men and women. Do you have the means to do it?”  
Conrad turned his head slowly, almost reluctantly away from Tamsyn to look at the revered mother. Tamsyn sat down, suddenly very weary, though she kept her back straight and looked down at the papers in front of her; anywhere but at Conrad. His voice was subdued when he spoke. “I do.” Tamsyn could not hide the sudden look of surprise. Conrad turned back to her. “In this case prayer may actually help. There is a body of an unknown man lying in a chapel close to the Dreadnaught Gate, waiting to be committed to the pyre. Perhaps he would benefit from your prayers.”


	9. Chapter 9

Roslinn looked down at the corpse and held her scarf to her mouth and nose. It did little to defend against the sickly-sweet odour of decay. His features seemed strangely shrunken on a face that had started to bloat. There was a purple discolouration that looked like a bruise around the brow and the left temple and the dark hair was still matted despite the efforts of the sisters to clean away the blood. “Is it him?” the voice of Sister Tamsyn was tense. Clearly she was also fighting against the stench. “Yes, Sister.” Roslinn replied, “That is Knight-Captain Lukas.” Or it was, she thought to herself. Sister Tamsyn turned to the man beside her with a wordless question. Bann Evenrig nodded in reply. “That’s him. Though he had a better scowl on his face three days ago.”  
Roslinn whirled around to face the tall nobleman, though she had to crane her neck to look up at him. “You saw him three days ago? Where? When?” Something about the quizzical frown she got back from the Bann told her she had spoken in the same tone used to pin down evasive or truculent mages. Obviously noblemen were not used to being addressed in that manner. “He spoke to everyone that way too. Had I known they teach you that in templar training I would have been able to identify him sooner.”   
“Conrad, please…” Sister Tamsyn cut in, “Not now.”  
Bann Evenrig rolled his eyes. “Very well, since you ask so nicely. I saw him at the militia camp with the city guards. It was past dark, during the storm.”  
“What was he doing there?” Roslinn asked, though she concentrated on softening her tone.

Sister Tamsyn nodded to the sisters who came forward to lift the body, wrapped in plain cloth, and carry it out to the pyre in the yard of the small chapel. They were trying, and failing, to contain their anxiousness to get the body of the fallen templar to the flames. Only their conscientious attempts to identify the body had kept them from giving him to the Maker days ago. "I am sorry, Ser Roslinn." Sister Tamsyn interrupted her thoughts, "We believe that Ser Lukas was acting as a mercenary when he met his death. It is hard to believe that a knight-captain would betray his vows in such a way."

Roslinn felt a surge of bitter anger towards the cleric that she knew was unreasonable. She was only putting into words what Roslinn had suspected for days now. She scowled. Ser Roslinn Corlett had a round face, large eyes and chestnut curling hair that, even though cut short, gave her a soft, youthful look at first glance. She had spent years in the order compensating for this by perfecting a hard stare and assertive, regimented poise. Knight-Captain Lukas had taught her that poise. Her mouth was twisted, though it was not the smell of death that disgusted her. Lukas had been an officer she could respect, or so she had thought. Now there was the stench of something far worse around the knight-captain. 

“We searched his quarters two days ago and found some… questionable things.” saying that out loud took effort, especially in the hearing of those outside the order.   
“What do you mean?” asked Sister Tamsyn  
“More lyrium and more coin than any of us should have by rights.” Roslinn ground her teeth as she thought back to the search for Lukas that had consumed the Ostwick circle for days. She had never allowed herself to think it might end like this. It had taken them several hours to even consider a thorough search of his quarters. Her first thought, as with most of her brethren, was to suspect treachery or foul play among the mages. Perhaps the knight-captain had discovered an escape attempt, or something worse, and may very well have been alive in the pursuit of his duty. Roslinn herself had conducted a sweep of the apprentice and junior enchanters' quarters. Part of her felt a little remorse at the grilling she had given to several of the known members of libertarian fraternity, but she reminded herself that they had still not been truly exonerated of involvement. When she had suggested searching the knight-captain's quarters, it had been with the idea of finding signs of hexes, charms or other magical sabotage. Her heart had thumped hard with grim triumph as she slid aside the flagstone under the bed. Then she had seen the stash. There had been coin, a few gems, tally sticks and lyrium in the form of potions and raw dust; enough to keep a templar supplied for months, if not years. Roslinn had just stared at it dumbly for minutes. It had even occurred to her, briefly, to cover it up. The others would probably not have questioned her. She had felt queasy when she realised that was well proven by the fact that Lukas' had been able to hide his cache in so obvious a place. Nobody came for a surprise inspection of your quarters when you rose to the rank of knight-captain.

The knight-commander had ordered the incriminating evidence removed and had sworn Ser Roslinn and the few others with her to secrecy. Somehow the rumours had spread through the tower from top to bottom anyway, just as they always did. Since then they had found no other clues to the whereabouts of the errant captain, try as they might. Not, at least, until a breathless messenger from the revered mother herself had summoned her to this chapel.   
"There must be something more to this." Roslinn growled to no-one in particular "Some reason for it all."  
Sister Tamsyn gave Roslinn a look that she knew clerics reserved for the spiritually confused and the bereaved. "Some men need no other reason than coin, or pride, or jealousy."  
Roslinn stubbornly refused to meet the cleric's eyes and stared at the empty table with her arms folded. "Was anything else found with him?"  
"We only arrived a few minutes before you, Ser, but the sisters usually keep the effects of such unfortunates in the hope that they may be identified after they have been cremated."

Sister Tamsyn issued some quick commands and the sisters brought a chest to the small side room. Roslinn crouched beside it and opened the lid. On top of a simple hauberk of red steel sat a pair of matching gauntlets and greaves, an empty scabbard, a dagger and a cloth cap. The cap had a tear in it and was stained with old blood. Roslinn picked it up and tried to imagine the blow that had killed Lukas; a mace, perhaps, or a cudgel? It was then that she noticed the glint of gold on the folded hauberk where the cap had sat. It was a pendant with a locket about the half the size of her palm. She turned it in her hand and ran her fingers over it. There was an inscription around the edge which read, "Debts must be paid in full." It was carved into the metal with lyrium.

Roslinn frowned and ran her thumb across the inscription. Her own lyrium infused blood sang a faint note at the touch and the locket clicked open. Roslinn blinked as she saw inside a vial containing something thick and red. That same grim satisfaction that she had felt uncovering the loose flagstone under Lukas' bed came over her again as she held it up for Sister Tamsyn to see. “What is that?” she asked.  
“A phylactery.” Ser Roslinn replied, “It’s a sample of blood from a mage. We use them to track those who turn apostate.”  
"Can you use that?" she asked, quickly. The cleric seemed even less interested in wasting time on chatter than Roslinn was. "Yes." replied the templar.  
"Good." nodded Sister Tamsyn, "Lead on."  
Roslinn stood. "I do not recommended that you accompany me, Sister. We have no way of knowing who, or what, I will find."  
"That WE will find, Ser Roslinn. Thank you for your concern but I do not have the time to wait to hear what you find. I shall put my faith in the Maker and your skills, Ser."  
Roslinn frowned again. It was an expression which came easily to her. She thought about mentioning that 'put my faith in your skills' was code for 'burden you with protecting me when you have other things to be concentrating on'. Instead it was Bann Evenrig that spoke. “Tamsyn, there is no need for that…”  
Sister Tamsyn cut him off. “There is every need for that. We will speak of this no further. I am coming with you and that is final.”   
"As you wish, Sister." Roslinn replied after a pause. She held up the phylactery and activated it, as she had been trained to do. Whoever this belonged to was not far distant; somewhere within the city. "This way." she muttered and led them out onto Ostwick’s streets.

It was late in the afternoon when they came to the house. Roslinn was dimly aware of what a sight they made as a templar, a cleric and nobleman wandering through the outer city on a meandering walk. They had been taken through district markets, along quiet streets, cart-choked roads and dark alleyways. The outer city held the bulk of Ostwick's population and folk of all orders except the very highest lived cheek by jowl between the inner and outer walls. Roslinn was almost sure that Sister Tamsyn had never before set foot in the crowded alleys where Ostwick's labouring poor lived, though the sister, a little younger than herself, did not allow herself to seem phased by the squalor. 

The wealthier merchants and craftsmen also lived here, however, and their finer burgages and guildhalls were never more than a stone's throw from the tenements of the poor. The house they stood before now was one such. It stood on a wide street where the gulls from the nearby harbour were picking over the refuse of the market stalls from between the cobbles. An archway two doors down opened up onto an alley. There were few people around. The traders had packed up their wares as the grey clouds of the afternoon began to drop a slow rainfall upon them. The aroma of dozens of suppers being cooked fought an ongoing battle against the salt tang of the sea and earthier smells of the street. 

"Are you sure this is it?" Bann Evenrig asked dubiously. "It hardly looks like the lair of an apostate."  
"You would be surprised where they hide, my lord." Roslinn replied. "I have hunted down maleficar in the most civilized of places. Even, once, a chantry." they both looked shocked at that. "Aye, it's true." she assured them. "She was posing as an itinerant preacher. They don't have horns or tails, unless they become abominations. They look just like you and me."  
"I do not envy your duties, Ser Roslinn." said Sister Tamsyn. "It must be difficult to walk that line." 

Roslinn did not answer. Instead she looked up at the house. It was narrow, likely only one room wide, but had three stories. There was a lazy trail of smoke rising from its chimney and all was very quiet. “There may be an entrance from the alley at the back.” she said simply and went to the archway without checking if they were following. She trudged to the end of the short alley. A dim light and a few raindrops reached in from the small gap between the rooftops. At the end was a pigsty which was home to half a dozen undersized swine. Peering over the rickety wooden fence she could see that it shared a border with the long garden plots of the burgesses. She smiled. This would make things easier. Sister Tamsyn and Bann Evenrig watched uncertainly as Roslinn climbed over the fence, making it creak alarmingly, and into the sty. "You can wait here if you wish." she said.  
Sister Tamsyn twisted her mouth and sighed. Then she pulled off her cap and wimple. Her red hair tumbled down as she propped the headgear on the post of the fence, hiked up the mud-fringed hem of her vestments and started to climb the fence herself. Bann Evenrig, after a second staring in disbelief, reached out to help her. She slapped his hand away and rocked precariously on the fence as she did. "Get off." she said as she wobbled and swung her leg over to squelch into the mud. She seemed to notice them both staring at her then. "Well? Are you coming?" she said to Evenrig, who shook his head and laughed before climbing the fence himself. 

They had to climb over two more fences and through the vegetable plot of the intervening house to reach the garden of the house which drew the phylactery at Roslinn's neck. It was an untidy plot, which did not seem to have been weeded in weeks, but the vegetables were planted in neat rows. Roslinn carefully led them closer to the door and crouched behind a row of bean poles to watch. Her two shadows crept up behind her and followed her example. Over the slow patter of lazy raindrops on the leaves of the beanstalks, she could hear little else. Then, all of a sudden the air was split by a screeching howl from inside the house.

Roslinn’s heart thumped hard as she surged forward, smashing apart a bean pole and racing to the back door. She drew her sword and unslung the shield from her back as she bounded through the four strides it took to cover the distance. The door, when she reached it, was unlocked and she barrelled through as she summoned a cleansing aura about her to shield against sudden magical attack. Then, as she took in the room around her, she stopped dead in her tracks. 

The lime-washed walls were lit in the glow of a stone fireplace. Its beamed ceiling was a generous height and the centre of the room was taken up with a large table that still left ample room for its inhabitants. There were five of them, a woman and four children, and they were all gaping in shock at the fully armoured templar who had burst through their door. There was an older boy sitting in the light of the window seat beside the door with a book. He had scratched a great line through his writing exercise with his charcoal stick as he had jumped halfway out of his skin. A girl in her early teens stood by the table holding a knife frozen over a partly chopped onion. A small boy stood by the fire holding a broken pottery wing. The face of the griffon it had once been a part of looked up from the stone floor amid the fragments of its body. The woman, wearing the apron and heavy key chain that marked her as the mistress of the house, clutched a girl of two or three years in one arm and and a heavy spoon in the other. The little girl stared in shock at Roslinn, and then at Bann Evenrig and Sister Tamsyn who followed through the door moments later. Then she looked up at her mother. Then she looked down at the broken griffon and started shrieking and furiously kicking her legs once again. 

“Adele! Be quiet!” the woman shouted and shook the child. She had ash blonde hair tied up in a bun that had been shaken partially loose.   
“Oh dear.” Sister Tamsyn tutted, “Please, do not be afraid. We are not here to harm you. Ser Roslinn, lower your sword.” Roslinn did not lower her sword. She kept the blade high and scanned the room before glancing down at the phylactery clutched in her hand behind her shield. “Who else is here?” she snapped at the woman.   
“Who are you? What do you want?” the woman asked in return in a wavering voice. The little girl was now red faced and still wailing. Her kicking making her mother rock from side to side. The noise was eating at the edges of Roslinn’s concentration. She made sure to note the lack of movement from the boy in her window to her left, and especially the girl with the knife. “Come now, Ser. You have led us to the wrong place. Let us leave these good people be.” urged Bann Evenrig.  
Roslinn did not move. “Someone else is here. Be quick and answer.”  
The woman just shook her head in reply. Then shook the crying child again. “For the love of the Maker, child, be quiet!”  
“Ser Roslinn…” Sister Tamsyn began in a sterner tone, but she did not finish speaking, for she was cut off by the appearance of a man wearing only a nightshirt at the doorway to the stairs. “Nell! Can’t you keep the children quiet? I need my sleep…” He stopped and stared as he finally registered the intruders through his bleary squint. His dark hair was a tangled widow’s peak that stuck straight out from his head, and his short cropped beard was peppered with grey. The nightshirt barely dangled over his hairy legs. He blinked, looked at Roslinn, and then turned and ran back up the stairs. 

Roslinn flew after, hot on the heels of her quarry. The man scrambled up the steep, curling staircase with his nightshirt flapping behind him to leave his dignity barely covered. ‘I have chased worse things into dark places.’ Roslinn told herself. He stopped at a landing to seize a chair and hurl it down the stairs at the templar. Roslinn batted it aside with her shield and did not break her stride. 

She was three paces behind him as she reached the top floor. She could see that he had turned and feel the mana he was summoning around him. With a fluid and practiced motion and force of will, she dissipated it, just as if she had blown on a dandelion clock to scatter its seeds. The man staggered backwards with a grimace and Roslinn swept her shield to plant it on his chest and send him tumbling onto his back. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender as his nightshirt lay in disarray around him. Roslinn stood over him and held her sword tip to his throat. 

"Cover yourself up." she said in an even, hard tone. He did so, and Roslinn reached down to grab him by his collar, hoist him to his feet and push him up against the wood panelled wall. "Did Lukas send you?" the man asked as he was being dragged. His voice was deep, accented and calmer than Roslinn liked. His eyes flickered between the phylactery in her hand and her face. "I will ask the questions, mage. How did you know the Knight-Captain?" Roslinn growled.   
The dark haired man raised an eyebrow. "Past tense? Has something happened to the honourable captain?" Roslinn snarled, seething at herself for giving that away and especially so at the mage for noticing it. The realisation that her reaction would only confirm his guess for him just made her even more angry. She grabbed a handful of his shock of black hair and yanked his head back with a jerk. "You will answer My questions, mage. Or I will see that you are made tranquil before the sun sets."  
"By the end of the week." he replied in a strangled voice.  
"What?" she loosened her grip.  
"It would be more intimidating if you said that I would be 'tranquil by the end of the week'. I might have believed that."  
Roslinn punched the man hard in his belly with a gauntleted fist and stepped back as he doubled over and vomited on the floor. "Is that intimidating enough for you?"  
"Yes... that was... quite good." he gasped out. Roslinn decided that his accent was Orlesian.   
"Ser Roslinn!" the voice of Sister Tamsyn snapped from behind her. "I take it that you have this man in custody and no further violence is necessary?"  
"He could still be dangerous, Sister. He could set us both aflame or freeze our blood in our veins."  
"He is also capable of answering our questions, and I would like to keep him that way." the cleric replied. She stepped up onto the landing as though she was in the cathedral, despite being slightly out of breath, the mud on her robes and her bared head.   
"You are most wise, Sister." said the mage, still stuttering as he recovered his wind. Sister Tamsyn turned her hard grey glare onto him. "Wise enough to be insulted by false flattery, Serah. That will not get you anywhere. Answers will. I would rather have them now rather than waiting until you are tranquil and will answer everything I ask of you." the mage was quiet at that. Sister Tamsyn looked to Roslinn and nodded.

"Who are you?" Roslinn asked.  
"My name is Anton Muret," he replied mildly, "If that is what you mean."   
"How did you know Knight-Captain Lukas?"   
"We had an arrangement."   
"What arrangement?"   
"Well you can see how he had me at a disadvantage." Muret nodded towards the phylactery in Roslinn's hand. "He chose not to press that advantage. In return I shared some of the profits of my freedom with him. I suppose you could say that I was his investment."  
"You were paying him off?" Roslinn's lip twisted as she said it aloud. "The gold? The lyrium? Where did you get it all?"  
Muret looked from Roslinn to Sister Tamsyn. "You do make it difficult to get hold of the stuff. Fortunately abilities such as mine are also difficult to get hold of and you would be surprised how many people would like to make use of them, despite what the chantry teaches about us. It is really all about supply and demand."   
"So you have been hiring yourself as a mercenary?" Sister Tamsyn interjected, looking meaningfully at Ser Roslinn. "I suppose they must have been very wealthy and influential people to be able to afford your services, not to mention dealing with lyrium smugglers."  
Muret cocked his head and shrugged, but he smiled and there was a twinkle in his eye that made Roslinn want to punch him again. "I suppose." he said. Roslinn did not at all like the way the cleric and the apostate exchanged wary, meaningful looks.  
“You’re lying.” she growled.  
He smirked at her, “I am sure that you wish I were, my lady. Alas, I am not, and I have proof.”  
“What proof?” Sister Tamsyn asked.

Muret looked over at desk by the window. “A ledger. In the strongbox underneath the desk.”  
“He is trying to trick you, Sister” Roslinn pressed the tip of her sword against his throat and the apostate winced as it drew a bead of blood.   
“No trick. I swear by Andraste’s holy ashes! The key is on a chain, on the table by the bed.”  
The two women exchanged glances. Roslinn shook her head firmly as she watched Sister Tamsyn studying the mage’s face. Roslinn watched helplessly as Tamsyn set her jaw and went to get the key, though she did not dare take her sword away from Muret’s throat to stop her. There was a heavy click as the key turned in the lock and Sister Tamsyn drew out a large, leather bound book. She opened it and frowned. “I am not impressed by blank pages, Serah Muret.”  
“It is enchanted.” he replied. “Bring it here.”  
“No!” Roslinn barked. Sister Tamsyn hesitated, but then brought the book over to them. Roslinn snorted in frustration and moved so that her body leaned over the hilt of her sword. All she needed to do was relax her weight to pin his neck to the floorboards. “One false move, mage.” she warned him. 

Muret kept his eyes looking up at Roslinn as he ran his finger over the page. It shimmered with dark swirls that coalesced into words, all in a neat hand and arranged in rows and columns. “Maker!” breathed Sister Tamsyn.  
“What does it say?” Roslinn whispered, never taking her eyes from the pinned mage. There was a pause. “Sister Tamsyn?”  
“It… It is a ledger of payments.” the cleric replied, distracted. “Hundreds of payments. All to ‘Knight-Captain Lukas Tanner of the Ostwick Circle of Magi’ his name is made out in full for every one. Dates. Times. Places…” she read on, “Three vials lyrium potion, twenty sovereigns; East Quarter; Third of Kingsway, 9:26… Forty Orlesian Royals; Docks; Wintersend, 9:27… One bag gems…”  
“Stop.” Roslinn said in a flat, hard voice and leant away from the sword.  
“Why would you keep this ledger?” Tamsyn wondered aloud.  
Muret rubbed at his neck where the swordpoint had bitten. “Every contract requires a bond to guarantee good faith. That was my bond.” He pointed to the phylactery in Roslinn’s hand. “This was Lukas’. This way he could not simply get rid of me whenever he wanted.” Roslinn felt a wave of nausea. 

Sister Tamsyn closed the book with a heavy thud. "Allow me to make myself clear to you, Master Muret. We already have enough evidence to convict you as an apostate, and your life is forfeit. Fortunately for you the chantry is far more concerned with curing the disease of corruption than with lancing a single buboe. What you know and your cooperation is far more valuable to us than your death... As you say, it is really all about supply and demand. Do we understand one another, Serah?"  
Muret glanced at Roslinn and half smiled. Roslinn's fist bunched of its own accord. "I have always been a faithful son of the chantry in my heart, Sister." he replied.  
Sister Tamsyn turned to Roslinn. "Please allow Master Muret to make himself decent. He will be accompanying us to the cathedral."  
Roslinn frowned, "But the Knight-Commander's orders..."  
"I know that the Knight-Commander will heed the revered mother's advice on this matter, Ser." Sister Tamsyn cut her off. "There are greater things at stake than one apostate."

It took surprisingly little time for Muret to clothe himself and calm his shock of black hair with a heavy brush to the point where a significant proportion of it lay down. His clothes were of a quality to befit the merchant class; a doublet and hose of good cloth, dyed green and embroidered. Roslinn watched him like a hawk as he did so. She forbade him any jewellery and insisted upon checking his boots before he pulled them on. The apostate quietly acknowledged her orders. It was a game Roslinn had played with enough mages in the past to recognise the moves. His weapons were the arch of his brow and a twitch in the corner of his mouth that he used to mix insolence into his submission. He wanted to see her anger. Her shield was her own impassive courtesy. He grew bored of the stalemate after a few minutes and finished dressing in tense silence. She descended the stairs behind him, with her drawn sword in her hand. 

In the kitchen Muret's family were sitting and waiting. Sister Tamsyn sat with the woman and spoke to her quietly. The woman was staring ahead,but jumped up as she saw her husband appear. "It will be alright, Nell." he said to her and waved his hand to bid her sit down. All eyes in the room turned to them, but it was the older girl's solemn stare, directed at Roslinn, that drew the templar's attention. To Roslinn's surprise the girl met her gaze. It was Roslinn that looked away first. "Time we left." said Sister Tamsyn.  
“Almost got it.” murmured Bann Evenrig. He was sitting at the table between the two smallest children piecing together the fragments of griffon. “Conrad.” was all that Sister Tamsyn said. The Bann looked up and seemed surprised to see Roslinn and Muret standing there. “Ah. Yes. Very well.” The four of them left by the front door. Muret paused by the oldest boy, and ruffled his irrepressible black hair, which echoed his own. “Man of the house again, Mathis. You know what to do.” The boy did not reply.

None of them spoke as they stepped out onto the street and turned back towards the inner walls. As they walked Bann Evenrig seemed to remember something and dashed back, ducking into the alley. He returned about a minute later holding the cleric’s cap which had been left hanging on a pigsty.He handed it to Sister Tamsyn with a small bow and grin. Trevelyan looked at it and seemed to be repressing a smile of her own as she snatched it from him. She dusted it off and replaced it on her head before continuing along the road, leading them along. “Thank you, Messere.” she said a few seconds later.  
“I am always at your service, my lady.” he replied.


	10. Chapter 10

The news had been spreading through the city since sunrise. Liveried heralds bore written missives to the estates of the noble houses. Summons were nailed to the lintels of the guildhouses. Criers called it out over the cacophony of the marketplaces, and wagging tongues wove it into gossip and rumour in the taverns. Teyrn Henryk had called an extraordinary session of his high court. By the afternoon the city was electric with speculation. Even the sea breezes stirred more fitfully with the sweet, pungent odours of a building storm as they drifted in through the windows of Revered Mother Thelois’ study.

Conrad faced firmly out at the white-flecked ocean and tried not to see the reflection of Tamsyn in the chequerboard panes looking at him. “You have to consider your position, Conrad." She said.  
“Bugger my position. You can have it if you’re so concerned about it.”  
“We cannot, and you know that, Bann Evenrig.” Revered Mother Thelois replied from behind her desk. “You are to be the teyrn’s son-in-law. You are the son of the last champion of Ostwick and the commander of the militia that was so suddenly disbanded. There is no-one else in Ostwick with so much prestige and so much stake in this matter. You must be there, and everyone must see that you are there.”  
“For someone with so much prestige I seem to be given very little choice in the matter.”  
The revered mother seemed amused at Conrad’s comment. “You say that as though it is a contradiction, my son.”  
Tamsyn did not seem amused. “Of course you have a choice, you stupid man! Let everyone see you snub the teyrn and his court and his daughter. Let everyone gossip about how you have been dishonoured, or Helena has been scorned, or how you are plotting rebellion. If you want to drag us all into a civil war, which we will lose, by all means stay here and sulk!” The revered mother took over the assault where Tamsyn left off, though her voice was calm and even. “Henryk must be at his ease tonight for us to navigate our way out of this without hitting the rocks. That is your part in all of this. If you choose not to play it, we will all sink with you. I cannot say it plainer that that, my son.”  
Conrad tensed at the revered mother's choice of words. Nautical phrases were an everyday part of language in Ostwick, and Conrad knew that the painful reminder of his parents’ death was rarely deliberate. However, in the case of Tamsyn's wizened little mentor he had cause to wonder. “I am not your son, your grace.” he muttered as he seized his doublet from the chair he had left it on and walked out of the door. He did not wait to see if they had anything further to say.

He might actually have arrived on time for the court if it had not been for the crowds clogging the Principia Hill. Though the court had been called as a surprise, only that morning, the streets leading up the hillside had been lined with stalls selling all manner of produce, most of it street food for the throngs of townspeople. The teyrn’s court was traditionally accompanied by such a fair, but Conrad was surprised how quickly and completely the people of Ostwick had thrown themselves into it. Did street-sellers lurk in the shadows just waiting to throw up grilled fish stalls and sugared apple stands? It was also customary for noblemen of rank to arrive at the Principia by horse, carriage or litter and accompanied by an entourage of servants. Conrad’s servants, horses and a carriage that hadn’t been used in years were all in the Evenrig estate on the hill between him and Principia, though he had barely spent two nights together in the place for months. It seemed unwise to arrive at court in a carriage loaned by the revered mother, so he had little choice but to push his way through the festive crowds on foot.

Some stepped aside when they turned to see him in his boar-emblazoned doublet, but few could see that from more than a few paces away. So Conrad had plenty of frustrating minutes to take in the street fair. As he pushed through he listened to the menagerie of speculations and rumours. According to them the teyrn was about to declare martial law; Darkspawn had been seen in the sewers; There was trouble in the elven alienage - when wasn’t there? Someone had heard that Orlais had invaded Ferelden. Someone else insisted that it was the other way around. Many recounted stories of towns in Southern Ferelden devoured by the blight. Almost as many scoffed at the idea.

At every corner was set up a table and there stood a man in the teyrn’s livery. Every freeman of Ostwick had the right by law to attend the teyrn’s court. Long ago the city authorities had overcome the obvious impracticalities of that law by employing the street-criers to relay the headlines of the proceedings beyond the gates of the Principia. Each one was required to have a voice that could carry well enough for the next to hear. Notoriously, the news that reached the foot of the hill did not always bear much resemblance to that which emerged from the teyrn’s halls. 

When Conrad finally reached the gates of the Principia he had also found a company of guardsmen standing before the gates looking menacingly at anyone who approached too closely and threatened to bustle offensively close to the nobles and their entourages as they entered. One of them barred Conrad’s path and ordered him to halt before he was nudged by his officer and told who he was. “My apologies, Bann Evenrig.” the officer had bowed to him as the guards parted and the gates were opened.

Conrad first had to stride through the courtyard, where gaggles of servants and retainers stood like abandoned toys. He had never really thought much about what servants did when they were left alone and he found himself staring curiously as they variously loitered, lounged, gossiped or busied themselves with seemingly pointless tasks like polishing muddy carriage wheels. The great hall was already full when Conrad entered. The nobles in their brightly dyed and embroidered clothing all stood closest to the dias where the teyrn’s throne stood, gathered in small clusters and poised to observe the others around them. Behind a railing stood the representatives of the commons. Guildmasters and the chairs of merchant companies were allowed to stand closest behind the nobles. The least of them took places in the shadows of two tiered galleries from where a few freemen of the city could watch the proceedings. 

Henryk’s sheep, regardless of their grade, parted for Conrad to march through their midst to take his place as prize ram at the front of the herd. Furtive glances and whispers followed behind him. It seemed that the only one that hadn’t craned their neck to watch him was a tall young woman standing at the front of the assembly. Conrad had known Helena Penhaligon since he had first been taken in as a ward of the teyrn. Back then she had been a quiet, seven year old girl; not something a recently bereaved twelve year old boy had paid much attention to. Yet somehow the way she stood now, so still in all the maddening swirl, reminded him of that girl. She was wearing a dress of green damask and cloth of gold and her light brown hair was bound in a long braid down her back. She faced resolutely towards the dais as though no-one in the room was even watching her. She did not even react when he stepped up beside her. She kept looking forwards at the empty teyrnal throne as Conrad had glanced briefly, almost furtively, at her. He had quickly started to feel that itch at the back of his head that was always brought on by crowds of people looking at his back. He perfectly understood the immovable poise that his betrothed maintained so tenaciously. “I am sorry that I am late.” he had whispered.  
Then she had glanced at him and half smiled. “But not as sorry as you are to be here?” she whispered back. He hadn’t replied.

There were two great stone fireplaces on either side of the hall, closer to the throne where the nobles stood. They illuminated the wooden panelling around the hall. In the flickering light the intricately carved figures seemed to move; men and qunari and ships re-enacting long-ago battles on the Waking Sea. The warm glow highlighted the golden throne and the two men standing on either side of it. To the left was a man with long grey moustaches wearing polished ceremonial armour that Conrad recognised from the night of the storm, though the captain of the guards look far more composed now than he had in the dark and the rain. To the right was the seneschal who had ridden out to dismiss the militia four days before, a man named Aiden, in a green mantle trimmed with ermine. He had iron grey grey hair swept back from a youthful face dominated by an aquiline nose

A dozen guards stood spread in two lines of six either side of two pillars that flanked the dias. They were too far from the nobles to hear their conversations, but close enough for Conrad to make out the glint of the firelight on their greatswords. The bared blades, pointed down at the ground and the only weapons permitted to be unsheathed within the hall, were a symbol of the teyrn’s justice, and a reminder of his power. Seneschal Aiden stepped forward and called out “Teyrn Henryk of House Penhaligon, freeholder of Ostwick and sovereign of its domains.”At his call the twelve guards turned their blades to point up at the roof and stamped their armoured feet on the floor. “The Lord! The Lord!” They called out in unison. Conrad’s taut nerves jumped at the sudden convulsion, though he held himself still. He felt a surge of unreasonable resentment at the men behind the closed helms.

The gold-framed door behind the dias opened and the sea of murmurs was silenced as Teyrn Henryk strode out onto the dias wearing a silverite coronet on his head. His grey streaked hair and beard lent a severe look to his long face. He stood before the throne surveying the court silently, seemingly unperturbed by the expectant faces gazing back at him. When he finally spoke it was with a practiced gravity that carried throughout the hall without becoming a shout. “My friends, I have called you here today to put to rest the fears that have beset our great city these many days and weeks. I know that you have all heard the dire news from across the sea. Good King Cailan of Ferelden is dead, slain with a great many of his soldiers in the wilds of the South. The rest is all confusion. Yet I hear dire warnings about the grey wardens and their role in the fall of this fair young king with the flower of his realm.” he stopped, allowing his words to sink in. A murmur ran through the room. “Many of you will know that I have disbanded our own militia, which I lately formed to combat the threat of the darkspawn at the behest of the grey wardens.” Conrad gripped the belt at his hip tighter. Everyone in the hall would expect him to feel slighted by that, he knew, and the weight of that expectation felt like a physical push at his back. He mused that perhaps that was the same thing as feeling slighted. 

“Though I have dismissed them it is my wish that they should be honoured…” the teyrn’s eyes fell on Conrad as he continued and a cold gripe gripped him in the stomach. “My lord, Bann Evenrig,” the teyrn hailed him,”For your tireless and loyal service as lord marshall of our militia I salute you. I know that you would have proven as great a champion of this city as your father did before you. Step forth, Serah, and let us honour you!”

Conrad watched Henryk starting to clap, but his foster-father looked out at the assembly rather than at him. Of their own accord, his feet carried him up to the dais. He felt oddly detached from himself as he pondered the puzzle of what Teyrn Henryk was doing. Only when he turned to face the crowd of people before him did some kind of self-awareness take hold. Out of instinct, he put on his best champion of Ostwick pose; straight-backed with his right hand at his belt shouting confidence and his left arm relaxed at his side calling out effortless nonchalance. It was the pose that he had practiced in the mirror as a boy when his father was still alive, the same one he had seen carved into his father’s statue since he had died. It seemed to Conrad that many of the nobles in the front ranks looked as confused as he felt. 

Applause began with a stutter and rippled slowly through the room. Sheer tension kept Conrad rigid as the dozen swordsmen at the dais stamped their feet and roared “Hoorah!” together. He was simply and dumbly grateful that he hadn’t flinched. The courtiers replied with a hurried, dissonant cheer. They were quicker and more convincing with the second and third ‘hurrah’. For most of his life Conrad had imagined being cheered like this, as a champion of the city. Yet this felt like a hollow humiliation. Everyone knew it, yet everyone played along. He looked at Helena and saw her looking back at him. Her serene half-smile had disappeared and white tension showed around her lips. Her brow was furrowed as she fixed her eyes on his and clapped, hard and steady. All at once it dawned on him that this was exactly what Henryk had intended. They had all cheered him as the leader of the militia. Now all that the militia and its members had done would be connected with him, and everyone would be watching for his reaction to what happened next. Conrad almost laughed aloud. It was an offer, a test and a trap all at once: play along with Henryk as the loyal captain, humiliated by betrayal, or… What had Tamsyn said? ‘Of course you have a choice…’  
Conrad gripped his belt tighter and held his pose.

The applause finally petered out a moment after the teyrn stopped clapping. He gave a short bow to Conrad. Conrad returned it and stepped back down from the dais. There was a rush of relief as he stepped back into line beside Helena. Hush returned as Teyrn Henryk sat. He allowed another long pause. “Now to matters more troubling. Five nights past officers of this city, acting upon my orders, were assaulted; not only with blades, but with magic.” a gasp from the courtiers behind Conrad, and a shout.  
“Your grace!” spoke a man with grey mutton chops and a booming voice, “This was the night before you dispersed the militia, and not gently either, if the story I have from my son is true. Four days we have been asking ourselves why. All this dark news and our militia is disarmed just at the time we need them. Why, your grace?”  
Teyrn Henryk nodded sagely. “I hear your question, Bann Clague. It is a good one and I shall answer it. For now know that all I have done is in defence of this city and be patient.” He turned to his right as he sat. “Captain Erlend, bring in the prisoners.”

Conrad drew in a long, slow breath as the whiskered guard-captain nodded and disappeared into a side door. Soon after he reemerged, followed by more guardsmen. They flanked a line of men and women in plain white shirts and breeches. All were barefoot and shackled at the wrist, and all blinked and squinted as they stepped out into the sunlit hall. The whispers among the courtiers rose as the prisoners were marched out and several gasps and exclamations could be heard. The side door was closed behind the fifteenth and final prisoner, a young man with red hair and a few days growth of beard tanning his jaw and his cheeks. He squinted at the sunlight and turned his face away. Yet he kept his shackled hands down, pulled back his shoulders and knitted his brow over his eyes.

They were all herded into the space between the two rows of swordsmen with their bared blades held high. The new guardsmen lined up in front of the dais and before the courtiers to form an armoured fence around the prisoners. The seneschal stepped forward on the dais and swept his arm dramatically at the prisoners. “Your grace, these before you are those that attacked your officers in the discharge of their duty. We bring them before you to face your justice.”  
The teyrn nodded gravely. “I shall allow the accused to be heard. This young man is known to us.” he pointed at the auburn-haired man. “Let him step forward and name himself.”

A pause; from between the pauldrons of two guardsmen from the shadows of the pillars Conrad could see him glance to the man at his side. Then he took a long stride forward. He bowed to the throne; a courtly gesture marred only by the clanking of chains. Anyone with the right vantage, and certainly Teyrn Henryk from his throne, might have seen the young man’s half smile. “I am Ruan, of House Trevelyan, at your service, your grace.”


	11. Chapter 11

Ruan had thought that his cell was cramped, and a staircase as wide as the one that he was standing on had been the stuff of dreams. Yet he had been alone for days and sharing the space with at least a dozen other prisoners and twice as many guardsmen made him feel claustrophobic. There, surrounded by the bodies of other people and nowhere to move, he looked up at the light above, steeled himself for what was to come and waited; and waited. 

It took effort to stop his heel tapping a staccato beat out on the step. Though his bare foot made no sound he knew from long training that the body could shape the mind as much as mind could control the body. He stilled his foot, took a breath and pushed his shoulders back. Then he rolled his head around slowly as though limbering up. It took him far too long, he decided later, to make himself speak to the man in front of him. “Sergeant Karel, is that you?” he whispered softly. The sergeant turned around. He was perhaps five or ten years older than Ruan, his dark hair close cropped and shaven, though like Ruan he had not seen a razor in days. “Aye.” he replied hesitantly.  
“I… I am sorry that I had to ask this of you.”   
Karel shook his head and turned away. “Sorry doesn’t get us out of this does it, Messere?”   
“No. I suppose not.” Ruan looked down at his filthy, bare feet.   
“Be silent!” called a nearby guard.   
After a few seconds of silence Karel spoke again without turning around. “If it was what you had to do then I guess that’s what you had to do… I… I am sorry too, Messere.” Something in the tone of his voice caught Ruan’s attention, but the guard beside Karel clipped him at the back of the head with his gauntlet. “Shut it, I said!”

Minutes more passed in quiet darkness until a silhouette appeared in the doorway and a gruff voice called “Come.” At that they were marched up the staircase and into the light. As he climbed Ruan filled his lungs and held the air in his chest to drive away the fatigue of his days in restless, hungry darkness. The light as he stepped out into the great hall was blinding and he heard the crowd of people before he saw them. He had known that a moment like this would come for days, and he had thought that he had prepared himself for it. Yet a lead weight seemed to drop through his stomach as he opened his eyes enough to see the faces staring back at him, many of them familiar. For most of the people that he had known all of his life, simply being seen like this was enough to condemn a man. “A man’s reputation is like a soup,” Ruan’s father had told him once, “Whatever you mix into it, that flavour is never coming out, no matter what else you put in later.” That memory came with the knowledge that his father would be here. He started to scan the assembly before he caught himself, and then swung around firmly to face the throne. He tried to listen to Guard-Captain Erland reading the charge against him, yet all he could concentrate on was the itch between his shoulder-blades where he imagined his father’s disappointed eyes boring into him. Ruan did not have to see his father’s face. His own memory and imagination could conjure the look of confused hurt well enough.

As he hovered on the edge of his crumbling resolve, Ruan’s head turned by itself to look back over his shoulder before he stopped himself once again. Instead he looked over at Karel, where the sergeant stood with a dozen other militia men and women. All stood two paces away from Ruan and did not return his glance. A chill ran through him and he sensed that he had been hailed. He turned to meet the cold stare of the teyrn. Henryk’s mouth twitched at the corner as Ruan met his eye and hesitated. Then, all of a sudden, that lead weight in his belly turned to cold rage. He did not look away. At the academie every bout had begun with a formal salute, so the single stride forward and the bow came as a fluid, instinctual movement. Ruan’s heart also beat a little faster out of habit and anticipation. The surge of blood ran through him like mana. “Defeat at the hands of a superior foe is no shame,” Ser Thibaut had told them all, “to waver before them is where true disgrace lies.” Ruan made sure to bow with poise. Let no-one say that Ruan Trevelyan began his last dance without grace.

“I am Ruan, of House Trevelyan, at your service, your grace.”

Behind him Ruan could hear an audible flutter from the courtiers. There were many gasps. From somewhere to his right there was a deep belly laugh that resonated above the chorus of excited whispers. One voice called out clearly, “Shame!” At the very least he had made an impression, for good or for ill.   
Teyrn Henryk looked imperiously down at him. “At my service are you?” his voice cut through the noise with practiced ease. “Either you are denying these charges, Serah Trevelyan, or you are a most brazen young fellow.” Many courtiers dutifully laughed. Ruan had to admire the man’s skill. Witty wordplay was an Orlesian fashion that had spread to Free Marches along with theatres and plays. Many of the assembled nobles would have caught the joke about Ruan’s red hair, the rest will have got the idea that they should be amused or risk seeming gauche. Either way, Henryk knew how to play the court. There would be no out-fencing him and no outlasting him. This was a battle where he would have to seize the initiative and fight to keep it. 

“No, your grace. I do not deny it. By my count I struck one of your men twice; once with the pommel and then with the flat of my sword. I recall stepping on one man as he flailed about on his back and I did help another fall backwards into a water trough. I also confess to doing a fair amount of shouting.” A few people behind him laughed, including the distinctive rumbling belly. Ruan smiled, continuing without pausing. “I also confess that I am responsible for the actions of the soldiers under my command. They were only following their training and my orders.” Ruan gestured towards the other prisoners with his shackled hands and turned his back on the teyrn to face the court. “ I acted in service of this great city to prevent a grave mistake. If I had not then we all would have been guilty of putting in chains some of the few grey wardens left alive in Southeastern Thedas, just at the time that they are most needed.”

The court burst into noise. Some shouted at him, Some at the teyrn on his throne. Still others shouted at each other and several arguments broke out. “Silence!” Teyrn Henryk’s voice was an angry shout now, and it drew all eyes to him. Ruan too turned to face the throne. Henryk was standing, and his glare fell upon Ruan. “I see that you are indeed shameless. Yes, I ordered the grey wardens to be detained in secret as soon as I heard of their treachery at Ostagar. How you came to know of this is a matter we shall inquire into most vigorously. First we shall deal with your arrogance and presumption, that you would think that you knew better than us in how to ensure the security of this city.”

Elation took hold of Ruan as he realised that there was no going back now. It felt like a weight from his shoulders had been lifted and he was free to say and do as he wished, unencumbered by the hope of survival. There were a few more gasps as he spoke up before the teyrn had a chance to continue. “I presume to believe that I come from the city that halted the Qunari at our walls. I presume that this is not a city of cowards that would jump at self serving lies spread by a foreign lord. I presume that our people would want to be remembered as the city that marched with Garahel to defeat the fourth blight, not one that shut up Thedas’ hope in dungeons during the fifth and trembled behind our walls while the rest of the world burned!” 

The shouting roared back to even more venomous life. Teyrn Henryk shouted for silence, then he shouted again. Only when he nodded to his guards to stamp their iron-shod feet did the angry voices die down. When silence fell it was deafening. Henryk let it hang over their heads as he surveyed the hall with a thunderous look. Yet when he turned to look at Ruan the imperious scowl disappeared. He sat back down on his throne and reclined stroking his chin as he looked Ruan up and down. It gave the uncomfortable sensation of being a mouse as it was sized up by a cat. He started to clap his hands in a slow rhythm. “Bold words, young man. I applaud your performance. I am sure many of us are inspired. Who would not be inspired by the legend of the grey wardens...Victory, vigilance, sacrifice.” His voice took on a mocking sonorousness as he spoke the words of the grey warden motto. “Yet how much do we really know about these living legends that ask so much faith and so much sacrifice from us?” He allowed the silence hang for a long moment before he turned to his left and nodded. The seneschal stepped forward, a man named Aiden that Ruan had heard much about in conversations between his father and his peers, mostly grumbles about his lack of noble blood. Ruan could imagine what his father would have to say about such a man presiding over the trial of his son, scion of the proud Trevelyan name. For his part Aiden seemed to have some satisfaction in his eyes as he looked down at him, though Ruan reflected that it might just have been his father’s prejudices giving him that impression. He bit his lip and looked at his feet as he stifled a laugh at that thought.

“The court calls upon Lieutenant Massen of the guard.” called Seneschal Aiden, and a man in the armour of a guard officer stepped out from the cordon around the prisoners and onto the dais, removing his helmet. He was close to Ruan’s age with sandy hair and thin russet beard. “Lieutenant Massen, you were in command of those guards assaulted by these prisoners, were you not?” asked the seneschal.  
“Yes, my lord.” the young man replied as he stared, straight-backed, into the middle distance.  
“Describe the attack to us.”  
“Yes, my lord…” Massen blinked and shifted slightly in his armour. “We were positioned in the square before the Dreadnaught Gate, thinking to trap the grey wardens in the gatehouse should they try to escape that way. Yet somehow they knew of our trap before we sprang it. They must have used some kind of magic to hex the gates, and then they rushed us.”  
“They rushed you? These few?” interrupted Seneschal Aiden, “How many men did you have in the square?”

Lieutenant Massen shifted inside his armour and hesitated. “Five and forty, my lord.”  
“Five and forty? By my count you outnumbered them three to one.”  
“Yes, my lord, but we did not merely face men. They summoned demons of fire that burned us in our armour from paces away and drew down lightning upon our heads. They had a mage with them; an elf.” That drew murmurs from the courtiers as Massen continued. “It bore twisted Dalish tattoos in its face. I could see it spitting a curse at me, and then it vanished into thin air.” There were several gasps.   
“That is not true!” Ruan called.  
“You were not called upon to speak, Serah.” snapped Seneschal Aiden, “You have shown quite enough disrespect to this court. Do you call Lieutenant Massen a liar?”  
“No, not a liar! There was an elf mage there. One of the grey wardens, but she had no Dalish tattoos, and…”  
“So you admit the use of sorcery?” Aiden interrupted him. Ruan froze as he realised that he had walked into the trap. The back of his neck was cold with sweat. As his hesitation grew two heartbeats long he could sense just how incriminating his silence sounded. So he took a breath and started speaking slowly and calmly. Having asked him a question, the seneschal now had to let him speak. “She used magic, yes; but there were no demons, no lightning. We took the guard-lieutenant and his men by surprise and he is remembering us as far more terrifying than we really were.”  
“I am not a coward!” shouted the lieutenant. His hand was on his sword hilt. It was an opening, and Ruan struck back.   
“No, but you were beaten. Beaten men always tell themselves that their enemy was insurmountable. Its easier to live with that way.” Massen turned a shade of pink and took a step forward at that, but Captain Erlend caught the younger man by the shoulder and pulled him back. 

“Enough.” Seneschal Aiden glared at Massen. “You did not capture this elf. Where did she go?”  
The guard-lieutenant ground his jaw together. “She was seen climbing the rooftops. This man was with her.” he jabbed a finger and stared daggers at Ruan.   
“Yet you did capture Serah Trevelyan?” the seneschal observed quizzically.  
“Yes, my lord. We found him in an alley off the Mercers Lane. He was unconscious, lying beside the body of slain man. There was blood everywhere.” Ruan felt a sharp gripe in his stomach at the memory of that alleyway. “Was it Trevelyan’s blood?” asked Aiden.  
“No, my lord. There was not a wound on his body.” The seneschal nodded as the murmurs rippled through the court. “Very good. You may step down, lieutenant. Captain Erlend, bring the next witness.”

Captain Erlend nodded and beckoned with his hand. The line of finely dressed courtiers parted and a stout, bald man wearing a worn woolen tunic and a thick, black moustache stepped out. Ruan recognised him immediately, “Name yourself, Serah.” the seneschal commanded as the man stepped tentatively onto the dais as if it might catch fire at any minute. “Oswald, my lord.” he said in a hoarse voice and coughed wetly, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. “Ahm.. begging your pardon. I am Oswald. I own the tavern in swine alley, off the Dreadnaught Square.”  
“Did you see this man on the night of the storm, Oswald?”   
Oswald looked hard at Ruan and nodded with a twist of his mouth. “Aye, I saw him.”  
“Then tell us what you saw, Serah.”   
Oswald puffed out his chest as he was addressed by the teyrn’s minister. “He came into my tavern with an elf witch. I took her for a whore at first. They were demanding a room. That isn’t the kind of place that I run. You can ask any man or beast; Oswald’s place is clean and decent. I won’t have no whores or gambling. So I was telling them no when she… did things.”  
“What things?” pressed Aiden.  
Oswald’s mustache bristled and he hesitated. “She took a knife and she cut me… on my manly parts, if you get my meaning, my lord.” That drew a few gasps and a little quiet laughter. Oswald faltered. “Please go on, Serah.” encouraged the seneschal.  
“Well she spoke to me in an unearthly voice and it was like something else was controlling me, so I took them upstairs to a room.”  
“What happened there?”  
“I saw them taking off their clothes. She was having that man lick the blood off her knife as they were fornicating.” he pointed an accusing finger at Ruan. He shivered and cold dread washed over him as he heard the cries from the courtiers behind him. He thought that he heard someone murmur ‘blood magic’. Then again, perhaps it was his own imagination.

“What?!” Ruan exclaimed.  
“You will be silent, Serah!” yelled the seneschal.  
“We were there for barely five minutes, and with guards on our heels!” he continued, desperate and incredulous. “How do you think we time had to to…” he was cut off as a guardsman stepped forward and drove the pommel of his great sword hard into Ruan’s belly. Ruan doubled up in pain as the air was driven out of his body and staggered as he tried to gulp it back down. Somehow he managed to keep his feet as the teyrn shouted for order.  
“Please continue, Serah Oswald.” Aiden said.  
Oswald nodded, “I was ready to run from the building and fetch the guards, but then they summoned up a winged demon that carried them out of the window and away.”  
“You must understand the seriousness of this matter, Serah.” the seneschal replied. “Will you swear to it?”  
Oswald nodded “Aye, my lord. I shall.”  
“Then we thank you. You may step down.”

Ruan’s voice came as a strangled breath that had to be ripped out of him, “Your grace. May I speak?”  
“You shall have your chance to answer. For now learn your lesson and be silent.” snapped Seneschal Aiden. All were quiet when Teyrn Henryk spoke, gesturing at the other prisoners. “My Lord Seneschal, we shall hear what these others have to say.”  
“As you wish, your grace,” answered Aiden. He turned to the prisoners. “You were all captured while fighting alongside Trevelyan and this elf sorceress. Explain yourselves.”  
Ruan half-turned his head to look at the others. Sergeant Karel too glanced his way and for a moment their eyes met. Abruptly Karel looked away and Ruan had a fresh intuition of dread as he stepped forward to speak directly to the teyrn on his throne. “My lord, I can speak for these men and women. We all did what we did, and we cannot deny it. We can only beg your mercy. We followed the orders of the captain, Messere Trevelyan. He told us that we had to save the grey wardens because of the blight.  
The teyrn looked thoughtfully down at Karel as the seneschal replied, “And you believed your captain?”  
“Yes, my lord.” replied Karel, “Well… Some of us had our doubts, especially with that mage.”  
“The mage? You mean this elf woman the others have spoken about?”  
“Yes, my lord. The elf was there. Her and at least one other mage in the grey wardens’ camp.”  
“You said that some of you had your doubts. Why is that?”  
Karel hesitated. “There was just something… queer about her. Sometimes she would just appear out of nowhere, like she did on the night of the storm. I saw her one night by the fires past midnight; just sitting. The fire was nothing but embers but I could see this glow in it, and she was talking down into the fire. When I looked closer there was a face in it, burning green and talking back to her.” There was a murmur from the crowd.  
“I saw that other one go into that big silver chest and pull out a flask of blood!” interjected a militiaman named Holm.   
“Aye,and remember that lad from Ansburg they had with them; the one with the scar on his neck?” now it was woman named Orla speaking, whom Ruan had last seen dashing down a side street away from the Dreadnaught Gate. She was nodding emphatically. “He was always coming to chat me up, every single day. Then one night he was gone. I asked them where he was and they just got this look and that grim Antivan one told me to be off.” The murmur in the crowd grew louder.

“Did you ever see Captain Trevelyan around the grey wardens?” asked Seneschal Aiden.  
Karel paused again before he answered. “Yes, my lord. He was often in their camp talking to them.” There was a silence and the seneschal kept his eyes on Karel. Karel looked away and shifted uncomfortably. “And did you ever hear anything of what they were talking about.”  
Ruan watched Karel stare at his own feet. His voice was hoarse when he spoke again. “I heard the grey warden captain talking to one of the mages about Captain Trevelyan.”  
“And what did they say?” The seneschal prompted Karel when he stopped.   
“I didn’t hear much… They said that he was worth watching and that maybe they could use him.” 

The murmurs grew to a chattering and a strange numbness came over Ruan. It took him a moment to realise that someone was speaking to him. He looked up to see Teyrn Henryk speaking. “... have to say in response to the evidence that has been given, Captain Trevelyan?”   
Ruan blinked and shook his head. He was suddenly very tired and it was hard to think.   
“Very well.” The teyrn nodded and turned to his right. Ruan followed his gaze to where Conrad stood beside Helena Penhaligon. “Bann Evenrig, these men and women were under your command, and I have heard you have a long acquaintance with Captain Trevelyan. Would you like to say any words on their conduct?” Conrad looked startled. He may not even have been breathing by the way he stood, still as a statue. Conrad’s face didn’t move, but Ruan looked at his hands. It was just a single roll of his thumb against his index finger; brief, but hard. All the times he had played wicked grace with Conrad it was the only tell he had ever been able to pick up upon. Conrad looked up at the teryrn, pushed his shoulders back, drew in a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak.

“Your grace!” Ruan called suddenly in a clear voice. “This man is not my friend and cannot give fair character witness for me.” Both Henryk and Conrad snapped their heads around to look at him. Ruan looked back at Conrad with a sneer. “Bann Evenrig has quarrelled with me many times over his treatment of my sister and he has unfairly found fault with my conduct as an officer. I fear he will use this as an opportunity to take out his resentments against me.” Conrad pressed his lips tight together and narrowed his eyes, flickering them towards the teryrn. Ruan held his gaze and gave a tiny shake of his head. “I beg you, your grace. Do not hear his witness now.” 

Teyrn Henryk steepled his fingers and looked from Conrad to Ruan. After a moment he nodded. “I will grant your plea, Captain Trevelyan.” he said at length. Conrad’s fingers flexed and he gripped his belt, turning his knuckles white as looked down at his feet.  
“You asked me if I had anything to say, your grace. I do.” Ruan’s heart was pumping hard again now and he pulled himself up to his full height. He had no weapons except the truth, and that thought made him smile. “You have shown some truths here today and I will confess without shame to them all. That I spoke with the grey wardens? I am guilty, for that was my role. That I attacked your guards? I am guilty, though for all the fire and demons that have been woven into this story I have heard of none of your men killed nor any gravely wounded. That I entered a tavern with an elf mage? I am guilty, though if that man thinks I fornicated with her in the few minutes head start we had on your guards I feel sorry for his wife, should he have one. Nor do we need to look for blood magic to explain why he obeyed her. I do not know many men who would say no with a knife against their balls.” There was some laughter from behind him.

“I have no more patience for your foolishness, Trevelyan.” growled the teyrn.  
Ruan smiled and bowed graciously. “Your pardon, your grace. I meant no disrespect, but I have one more confession.” He had been taught at the academie that victory was the first duty of the chevalier, but if you cannot win you must make your foe pay dearly for your defeat. “The lord seneschal has not asked any questions about the man who was found dead beside me in the alley; a striking omission, for it is a very incriminating situation.” Ruan leaned on the word incriminating and noted how the teyrn glanced at the seneschal with a question in his eyes. Aiden replied with a shake of his head as Ruan continued. “That man chased us down there and I admit that I crossed swords with him. He wore no livery, no insignia. I took him for a mercenary employed by your guards until he struck a mage’s spell out of the very air.” Teyrn Henryk pushed himself up from his throne and shouted “That is enough, Trevelyan!” as the crowd muttered restlessly. Ruan raised his voice over them. The enemy’s guard was closing and his last chance would soon be gone forever. “For a moment I thought that he must be a templar, but then I recalled that no true templar would break his vows to turn sellsword and no good lord of our city would ever induce him to do so. Is that not so, your grace!” Hard hands were grabbing at him as he spoke and Ruan had to struggle to stay on his feet and raise his voice to a shout as he finished. He felt a shadow fall over him as hundred of voices roared to life around him. He turned to see a steel gauntlet rushing towards him. The world flashed, filled with sudden pain, and went black.


	12. Chapter 12

Roslinn's voice echoed inside her helm as she shouted above the din. "Make way!" She roared, "Make way for the revered mother!" Ahead of her the people filling the streets turned and looked startled to see her. They would shuffle and push into the shadows of the overhanging buildings, and then the people behind them would notice the row of armoured templars and do the same. Roslinn knew that the court would already have begun by now as she looked up the hill at the tower of the Principia. They might have arrived before it was opened had they left the cathedral earlier, but Revered Mother Thelois had insisted on waiting for more of Ser Roslinn's brethren from the circle. That had meant waiting for the tides to change so that the templar boats could make the journey from the islands. The revered mother had not seemed concerned by the delay, but Roslinn was troubled by the fact the the old lady felt the need for two score templar bodyguards to accompany her on a visit the teyrn's court. 

Yet here they were, forming a wedge around the revered mother's carriage and pushing through the crowd like the prow of a ship through waves. Roslinn herself had insisted upon sitting in the carriage beside the prisoner. There was no way she would have allowed the apostate the opportunity to run into the crowd, and it would not do to leave the senior cleric of the city alone with him. Muret's hands were bound tightly in chains behind his back, and Roslinn's sword was unsheathed across her lap. His dark hair had been oiled and smoothed down against his head, but the ends of it still resolutely curled upwards in intermittent spikes. He wore a long coat with a broad collar and an insolent expression. "Slow going, isn't it?" Commented the Mage cheerfully in his Orlesian accent.  
"Quiet." Roslinn growled back.  
"As we aren't making much progress we might stop for a moment. I haven't eaten since this morning and that fried squid smells wonderful!" He continued.  
"You were told to be quiet." Roslinn snapped.  
"We shall feed you again when all of this over, Serah Muret." The revered mother said.  
"Ah, thank you, your reverence." Smirked Muret with a sideways glance at Roslinn, "You truly embody the grace and generosity of the the chantry."  
Revered Mother Thelois chuckled, "Flattery will only get you so far in life, Serah Muret. Though perhaps that was meant more as a jibe at Ser Roslinn here? Take care not to burn one bridge while building another, Serah. The good knight and I both serve mother chantry and your dispensation depends on you doing the same."  
Muret's smirk evaporated. "As you say, revered mother." He replied quietly.

As they climbed the hill the atmosphere on the streets became less festive. The people clustered around the street criers, waiting for news. Ser Roslinn was able to make out some of the shouted bulletins as they passed. "The teyrn honours Conrad, Bann Evenrig and son of Caspar the Champion, for his service to the city as Marshall of our militia!" Came the first, unremarkable, notice. Then, later, came news that made even Roslinn's ears pick up. "Members of the militia are accused of attacking the teyrn's guards!" Then, "Witnesses report the use of blood magic by a grey warden maleficar!" As they continued their climb those words were echoed in conversation Roslinn overhear, repeated time and again: blood magic, maleficar, grey wardens. Some people started to approach the templar column. "Are you hunting the maleficar?.. Has the blood mage been taken?... Are we in danger?" Their pace slowed to a crawl as Ser Roslinn's brethren stayed stoney silent and pushed aside the fretful citizens.

The carriage finally reached the gates of the Principia to find it guarded. "The court is already in session." Called the officer at the gate. His armoured men stood to attention, but Roslinn noted the nervous glances they gave the row of templars. She dismounted from the carriage and walked around to where Muret sat. "Out." she barked.He complied quickly enough. She pulled off her helm and gripped her sword in her right hand. In her left she held Muret's shackles and pushed him before her towards the guards. "This man is an apostate, apprehended yesterday." The officer backed away from her as she advanced. "We have reason to believe that he has fellows inside the Principia at this moment. So tell me, Serah, will you continue to stand in the way of our duty?" The guardsman hesitated for a moment, then he turned to his men and ordered the gates opened. 

**********

Anton Muret was a well travelled man. He had seen places as far apart as Montsimmard and Antiva City. He was no stranger to the castles, châteaux and palaces of Orlais, Ferelden and the Free Marches; not bad for the son of a saddler. Still, he usually conducted himself with careful and necessary discretion in such places. Entering the great hall of Ostwick's Principia in shackles and flanked by forty templars was somewhat outside of Anton's comfort zone. 

The sight that greeted him was no more comforting. The cacophony of shouting could be heard from the far end of the corridor. When the templars pushed open the doors of the great hall the noise seemed to reach out to embrace them. It grew louder as the courtiers shouted at each other and at the throne standing on the far side of the hall. A phalanx of guards huddled, swords drawn, around the teyrn. Muret's attention was drawn by a red faced man leaning over the railing of the balcony, screaming and pointing down at someone Muret could not see. As he watched the man reached down, pulled off his shoe and threw it down into the crowd below. Closer to the door two men in guild coats squared up to each other. One was jabbing his finger into the chest of the taller man who glared back with his fists bunched. He could see the teyrn shouting from his throne, but could not hear his words. 

If the templars were as taken back as Anton it was difficult to tell from behind their helms. Yet they did hesitate. The younger, red haired cleric looked aghast, while the revered mother just looked on as inscrutably as ever. It was her that finally strode forward into the chaos. The steel wall of templars fell in at her heel and Muret found himself dragged along behind them by the resolute grip of Ser Roslinn. 

The arguing guildsmen looked around in shock as they finally noticed the cleric's entourage and stumbled apart to make way from them. Others in turn fell back and stared, falling quiet as the templars advanced. A space cleared in the centre of the hall as the knights spread out in two rows either side of the revered mother. Ser Roslinn stood at a distance behind, still firmly gripping Muret's shackles and her drawn sword. Muret looked around to see hundreds of faces looking back at him. Most of them would be wondering who he was, though he knew that there were some among them that would recognise him. He wasn't entirely sure which type of person he should be more worried about. 

As much as they were looking at him, it was the revered mother, a diminutive figure in a great open space, that held the most attention. The hush dragged on as she looked expectantly up at the teyrn. For his part the teyrn stood gaping at her as if she was a griffon that had suddenly burst through the floorboards. It took him several moments before he spoke. "Explain the meaning of this intrusion into our court, revered mother." The cleric's honorific was added after a pause, causing the teyrn's indignation to peter out in embarrassment. Revered Mother Thelois' voice, when she replied, was clear and calm. "I regret the necessity, your grace, but we come on a pressing matter. We have made some disturbing discoveries in the past day that the we cannot allow to go unanswered. I must demand that your prisoners be handed over to the chantry courts.”

Muret reasoned that he could not possibly be the only one in the room counting the pieces on the board. He, however, had been given the whole of the carriage ride from the Temple Hill to calculate the possibilities. On one side was he teyrn: His guards outnumbered the templars significantly. He seemed to have law and precedent on his side in this secular court and outrage at clerical interference could be stoked to multiply his advantages. On the other hand the guards’ numbers had to be weighed against the templars’ training, motivation and the effect of their reputation. Muret had some experience of all three and he would have laid his money on the knights if anyone was taking wagers. He was also, at that moment, factoring in the teyrn’s surprisingly poor grip on his own court. Perhaps the chantry party was not the only thing he had to worry about in this room. “Then, of course, there’s me.” Muret thought to himself and smiled, “The pebble that tips the whole balance…” 

“You overstep yourself, revered mother.” The teyrn, it seemed, had not reached the same calculation as Muret. An understandable error. “This is a matter of the security of Ostwick. This city will not be usurped by a priest!”  
“Magic must serve man, not rule over him.” the voice of the revered mother resonated as she declaimed the words of the chant of light. Suddenly her presence was magnetic and she spoke with force. “It has always been the role of the chantry to uphold that commandment of the Maker. You have all heard today the claims of blood magic. There is more; much more and worse. This is very much a matter for the chantry, your grace.” she continued without pausing. “Knight-Lieutenant Roslinn has come from the Circle with evidence of interference, not of the chantry in the secular, but very much the other way around.”

Beside Muret the templar hesitated as all eyes turned to her. He felt her hand grip his shackles tighter before she spoke. “Knight-Captain Lukas Tanner, deputy to the Knight-Commander, was found to be missing on the day after the storm.” she spoke in a flat monotone and stared straight ahead. “When we searched his quarters we found a significant quantity of lyrium and coin.” That provoked some muttering from the court, but the revered mother cut in quickly with a question. “Was the knight-captain found?”  
“Yes, revered mother.” Ser Roslinn replied. “He was found dead. Apparently his body was found with Messere Trevelyan when he was taken by the city guard.” The murmurs grew more intense and the focused attention of hundred of people seemed to make the air electric.

“I have heard enough!” called the teyrn.  
“I don’t think I have!” someone in the assembly called back. That earned some angry retorts before the revered mother’s voice rang out. “Be at peace, brothers and sisters!” not everyone fell quiet, but enough did for her to continue, “Knight-Lieutenant Roslinn has shown the diligence in her duty we have come to expect from the templar order, and done much to restore my faith. She has not flinched in the investigation of this officer’s corruption. Yesterday she apprehended this man." She turned and her boney talon of a finger pointed straight at Muret. "I would not have breached the custom of ages to come here had I not heard the confession of this man; this apostate.” Suddenly every person in the room was looking at Anton. It was time to be the pebble on the scale. He glanced sideways at Ser Roslinn, and found her glancing back at him. The two of them looked away abruptly and Muret lifted his head and drew in a breath. “My name is Anton Muret, of the mages collective.” he began, and the sensation of having so many paying him rapt attention gave him a rush of excitement. “I knew Knight-Captain Lukas for many years, and he knew of me. We had an arrangement of mutual benefit.” Anton looked up at the dais to see the teyrn looking hard at him. Teyrn Henryk was keeping his face very still indeed. That stillness was telling to Anton, though he thought perhaps it was enough of a mask to conceal his thoughts from most others here. “The knight-captain ensured that myself and my brethren in the collective did not come to the attention of the templar order as a whole. In return we agreed to take on some contracts at the knight-captain’s suggestion and give him a tithe on our payments.” the groans and gasps of disgust from the courtiers were palpable. Revered Mother Thelois cut in quickly, “Payments in gold?”  
“Yes, revered mother.”  
“... and lyrium?”  
“Yes, revered mother.”

It really had been an arrangement of mutual benefit, Anton thought to himself as the howling got louder. Over the years he had allowed himself to think of Lukas’ tithe as something like a true rent rather than blackmail. After all, the good captain’s oversight really had allowed the collective to operate, and Anton to live, with greater freedom than they ever could have had they been looking over their shoulders for templars. Some of the tasks they had been required to perform had been onerous or distasteful, but most had been very profitable. The past day had not given Muret the time to consider what he was losing and he felt a sudden pang of regret. If only the rat-faced bastard hadn’t insisted on holding that Maker-cursed phylactery over his head, none of this would have happened. Lukas had expected Anton to try and kill him, of course. Anton could not in all honesty say that he had not considered it, so he had to admit that the phylactery was a sensible insurance policy. Trust between mages and templars did not come easily, it seemed, and honour among thieves was a myth. 

Revered Mother Thelois was calming the shouts. "Do you hear that, your grace? A secret society of apostates, senior templars drawn into collusion, and some of our own citizens participating by hiring these mages for their own selfish ends! I ask you to assist the chantry in investigating this corruption before it festers." She took a step towards the dais and looked up at Teyrn Henryk speaking slow and clear for all to hear, "You have ruled Ostwick for years in peace, your grace. I beg you to rule now with as much prudence as you have exercised before. Help me to end this matter before its taint can spread."

Anton, for one, heard just what emphasis the cleric put on the word 'taint'. He had a pretty good idea that the teyrn caught it too. Anton had been called many things before, but never a 'taint'. He couldn't help chuckling. He watched the teyrn standing before his throne, just like everyone else in the hall. Teyrn Henryk looked back at the revered mother cautiously before glancing around the courtiers. Muret was sure that he had meant that to appear calm and imperious, but to him it looked like a man watching a pack of wolves to see which one was about to leap at him. The teyrn's eye fell on him and regarded him for a moment. Anton smirked and winked back.

"I see that this matter is more serious than even I had suspected, revered mother." The teyrn finally announced. "We must deliberate together to see what must be done. Let this court be adjourned. If it please you and your knights to remain we shall speak." He nodded quickly to the seneschal beside him, who hurriedly stepped forward to call out. "My lords, ladies and freemen of the city. Let this session be ended. Go now in peace!"


	13. Chapter 13

Only a very few times in her life had Tamsyn been sorry to be a Trevelyan, and never once had she been ashamed. Yet she was painfully aware of the things that might be said of the revered mother's intervention were the sister of the accused man to be seen too prominently in her entourage. She was also aware that many of the people at the front of the great hall knew her. One thing that Tamsyn had learned in her years in the chantry, however, was that many people saw the vestments and not the person underneath. A whole row of uniforms could blot out all of the individuals that wore them. So Sister Tamsyn took her place in line with the templars where few enough would ever look for or see Tamsyn Trevelyan. 

At the seneschal's announcement the courtiers began to drain from the hall. Teyrn Henryk and Revered Mother Thelois stood like statues, facing one another across their fences of armoured supporters. The doors of the hall closed and the teyrn turned without saying a word. He nodded to the captain of the guards and the seneschal and at that the guards that had formed a shield wall around the dais broke apart into lines either side of the room. Teyrn Henryk did not turn back to watch them as he walked around his throne and disappeared into the gilt-framed door behind. Seneschal Aiden and Captain Erlend followed their master. Suddenly the hall felt very large and very empty. 

"Tamsyn?" The revered mother's voice echoed. Tamsyn quickly moved to her side. The revered mother's long, gaunt hand took Tamsyn's offered elbow. It was a duty she had performed as an acolyte. Thelois was always weary after a long service, and the chant of light did not shorten itself to accommodate an old cleric with crumbling knees. "Would you mind bringing Serah Muret along with you, Ser Roslinn?" she asked. Linked together like two couples going for a stroll, the four of them climbed the dais and followed the Teyrn of Ostwick into his solar. 

Teyrn Henryk sat behind an ornately carved desk of dark wood. The captain and the seneschal stood to either side of him. Tamsyn let Thelois lead her to the centre of the room.  
"Seneschal, please get the revered mother a chair." Teyrn Henryk commanded. Aiden, though he seemed surprised, did as he was asked and brought a similarly carved chair from the corner of the room and placed it behind Thelois, who carefully sat in it. "Thank you, my dear" She said with a smile.  
When the teyrn spoke again his voice had lost some of its courtly veneer. "You are playing a dangerous game, Thelois. Do you really want to start a civil war?"  
"Do you?" Thelois replied. "You seemed to be doing very well at that before we arrived, Henryk."  
"This was your doing!" Henryk barked back angrily.  
Thelois was mild in her reply, "I have played my part by the lights that the Maker has seen fit to show me, as have you, Henryk. What happens now depends on both of us."

Revered Mother Thelois leaned back in her chair, and Tamsyn knew that as her signal to step forward. "The revered mother is anxious to get to the bottom of the corruption and find those that have been harbouring and abetting apostates in the city." Tamsyn saw the teyrn suddenly take notice of her as she spoke, and she saw the moment that he recognised her for who she was. "We found the body of Knight Captain Lukas in a chapel in the merchant district, being made ready for a pauper's pyre. He almost went nameless into the flames, your grace, and we would have known none of this if he had." Tamsyn made sure to sound earnest as she looked Teyrn Henryk in the eye, "Your guards were very quick to take Ser Lukas' body to be disposed of. They were commendable in their efficiency. Given the lengths that Ser Lukas went to to appear anonymous they cannot be faulted for failing to notice his importance."  
"I will pass on your compliments to Captain Erlend." Teyrn Henryk commented, his tone brittle and wry.  
"Please do, your grace." Tamsyn continued. "By the Maker's grace we were able to identify the knight-captain and find in his effects the phylactery that led us to Serah Muret here. He has chosen to confess his crimes and give us information on this 'mages’ collective'. I know you will be shocked to hear that so many apostates have been at large in our city, your grace. It seems that they are organised and that Ser Lukas had been working with them for years, even helping this mages' collective to hire out their services to those unscrupulous enough to seek them." She watched The teyrn's face closely as she laid out her 'revelations'. He showed nothing at all on his face. Conrad would have said that Henryk could make a killing at wicked grace. 

"That is indeed shocking, Sister." He cut in, "Though sadly it is only more evidence of dangerous magic on top of what my guards have discovered about the grey wardens. We will be grateful to take what evidence you have so that we can investigate further."  
Tamsyn's reply was a study in guilelessness, "The templars have centuries of experience in dealing with rogue mages and their allies, your grace. We would not want to see you needlessly endanger your men or yourself. Besides, we have already uncovered so much. Would you ever have thought that such a man as this would have kept a ledger of his activities?" She gestured at Muret and noted how Teyrn Henryk's jaw clenched. It was a palpable hit.  
"A ledger?" He asked through his teeth.  
Before Tamsyn could continue an Orlesian voice piped up behind her. "Now I am insulted, Sister! You have broken into my home and arrested me in my nightshirt, but until this moment you did not insult me. A man such as I? I am Anton Muret, formerly an enchanter of the Montsimmard Circle, not a common thief! Yes, your grace. I kept a ledger of our business as even the most simple of tradesmen might, for the protection of myself and my fellows."  
"For blackmailing your clients, you mean!" The teyrn hissed back.  
Tamsyn almost forgave Muret for interrupting her when she saw his shrug. "Demons and spirits require one type of ward. Men require another." He replied.  
Tamsyn continued before she could be interrupted again, "The ledger records dates, monies paid, details of the enchantments, their uses, their targets. There are even references to habitual clients, certainly enough for the templars to decipher. We have only to analyse it in detail to lay it bare for all to see." 

The teyrn fixed Tamsyn with a long stare. He neither smiled nor scowled, but for a moment it gave Tamsyn a flutter of trepidation. Henryk Penhaligon was not a man to be trifled with. Nevertheless, she knew who and what she served. Teyrn Henryk turned to Thelois. "I think that it is time that you told me what you came here to ask of me."  
Tamsyn's mother had been prone to talking past her to her father, especially when she could not win an argument. She found now that the habit of resentment had not disappeared even after years in the chantry, even in the presence of teyrns. She quickly and crisply answered the teyrn's question herself. "My brother and his compatriots were the last people to see Knight-Captain Lukas alive. We must take them into our custody."  
"Oh, I shall be quite glad to be rid of at least one Trevelyan tonight, Sister." Henryk said. Tamsyn made sure he did not see her shiver in the chill.

Finally, Thelois spoke up. "It is clear that this affair is bound up with whatever transpired with the grey wardens. The chantry courts and the templar order will investigate both."  
Teyrn Henryk replied slowly and deliberately. “If I were to agree that this falls within your purview, revered mother, the city would be putting great trust in you. I would be putting great trust in you. I must first know what you will do.”  
“I would do what I have always done, Henryk.” replied Thelois with a beatific smile, “I would shepherd the souls of the faithful and seek to bind our people together in reverence of the Maker. The last thing that this city can afford at this time is division. You and I must do our best to avoid that. Wouldn't you agree?"

At first the teyrn made no reply. He leaned back in his seat and stroked the salt and pepper whiskers on his jaw. He turned to the guard captain. “Captain, prepare the prisoners. The templars will be taking them into their custody.”

**********

Ruan was brought back to consciousness by the icy impact of cold water. He was in the dark and his head was throbbing. Despite the cold water his forehead felt hot. Someone dragged him to his feet and he tried to stand upright, but the world lurched to the side and he found himself swaying until his hand found a damp stone wall to hold himself up. "On your feet. Come on" barked somebody in the dark. They took hold of his shackles and pulled. Ruan did his best to follow. They were climbing stairs. Above them was a light that was painfully bright. As he tilted his head to look up at it Ruan found that his body kept leaning back of its own accord. Somebody behind him caught him and pushed him back onto his feet. He stood very still for a long moment and was then slow and deliberate about his movements when he turned around to look behind him. "Karel?" He croaked, "What's happening?"  
"No idea, messere." Karel replied.  
"Keep moving." Growled a woman's voice from below and behind them. 

When they stepped through the doorway at the top of the stairs the light was like daggers. Ruan covered his eyes with his hands and felt pain as his fingers touched his forehead. They came away sticky and red with blood. As he drew them away he squinted and blinked. Slowly, glinting armour and scarlet sashes came into focus. The row of templars in front of him lurched and Ruan caught himself, compensating by leaning back the other way. The rest of the great hall seemed to be empty. He found his hand moving to his hip, looking for a sword. It was an instinctive motion that was interrupted as the heavy shackles dragged both arms to the side and sent him into another lurch.

He righted himself and pulled himself up straight as his head span. Somewhere in a fog of disjointed thoughts he decided that he could not stop them killing him, and it was better to die with dignity rather than stumbling around in a futile attempt to fight back. Someone approached him and he carefully drew his head around to look at them. "Ruan? Can you hear me? Are you alright?"  
"Tamsyn?" He replied. He couldn't think why she would be here, and he didn't trust his senses.  
"Yes. It's me. You have to come with us."  
Ruan looked around. Beside him stood, Karel, Orla, Holm, Watt and the other militia arrested with him. To his left, on the dais, he saw Aiden, the seneschal, looking down at them. "I suggest that you do as she says, Serah Trevelyan." He said.  
"What is happening?" Ruan asked Tamsyn.  
"Not here." She replied, "We have to go now. I will explain on the way."

They marched down the Principia Hill in a line, flanked by the templars. A carriage bearing the revered mother and Tamsyn rode ahead of them. The sun was setting, though its glare still hurt Ruan's eyes and made his head throb. The streets were littered with the debris of a fair: discarded food, half-empty stalls and a crowd that was shedding people as they drifted home in the fading light. The air was chilly, but not quite as cold as the looks that shot in their direction as they passed. Ruan was not sure which was making him shiver. Some shrank back from the column. Others spat in the street as they passed. It seemed that the rumours of witchcraft and blood magic had spread quickly. One ragged man holding a jar of drink shouted at them, "Filthy traitors," and hurled a rotten apple at them. His aim was wild and it was deflected by a templar shield. Ruan put his head down and let the rhythmic clatter of armoured knights marching drown out the heckles. It was mercifully dark by the time they reached the foot of the hill. The Dells were not the safest of districts to be in after nightfall, but few of the denizens of the slums would think to trouble a company of templars. Climbing the Temple Hill banished the cold as they marched in silence, though the throbbing in his head grew more intense. He barely remembered the lay sisters tending to his head, or laying down to go to sleep.

He dreamed of the thunder of hooves, the wails of the dying and the screaming of burning timbers collapsing. He could hear them coming and he tried to run, but his legs moved so slowly. He climbed the stairs to a bedroom as a small child ran from him. She was hiding under the bed and he tried to reach her, but his great tusks got in the way. He couldn't get down low enough. She screamed and bit into his hand. When he pulled it free his great hairy hand was bleeding from dozens of deep gashes. The room smelled of oily smoke. The heat of it beat on his back. There was no way out. Closer. Closer...

Ruan awoke with a start, shivering in sweat sodden sheets. He had woken like this for two days in a row. This time it did not take him so long to remember where he was. The small guest room in the cathedral's hostel usually accommodated pilgrims on their journey to Amaranthine. It had been Ruan's cell for the two days since the teyrn's court. He rose and poured cold water from the large jug on the small table into a bowl and splashed his face. The table, a chair and a bed made up all of the furniture in the simple room, but the morning light streamed in from a window that faced onto the cathedral's gardens. He was also well fed, which made this a palace in comparison to the accommodation Teyrn Henryk had provided for him. The main discomforts here were the boredom, the solitude and the uncertainty.

In that time virtually his only company had been that simple furniture, the view of the garden, and a succession of templar guards at the door. When he had tried to leave they had all informed him that he was required to remain inside and that, should he require it, they would accompany him to the latrines. Ruan had kept asking, if only to find out each knight's peculiar mixture of dogged firmness and stolid courtesy. 

Tamsyn had visited him briefly on the first day. She had brought him his armour, left days before in the cathedral's undercroft, asked about his health in an inquisitorial fashion that reminded him of their mother and only after her concerns were satisfied did she explain his release from the teyrn's dungeon. She had swept off again after her hurried briefing, but had promised to enquire after Ruan's gear and personal effects left behind on the militia's muster ground on the night of the storm. He knew that his copies of Massache and Genitivi were both in his trunk back at camp and they might at least give him something to pass the hours with. Instead Tamsyn had returned on the next day with a quick announcement that his possessions were held at the Principia and may take some time to retrieve. She had pushed a book into his hand and said "take this instead." Before hurrying off again. The book turned out to be a literary and historical analysis of the Chant of Light, no doubt plucked from the shelves of the chapter house library. Ruan had been surprised by it, both by how engaging he had found a topic that had always bored him at university as a teenager, and how close the author came to questioning some of the Chantry's habitual assumptions. 

The book was still open on the floor where he dropped it as he fell asleep. As he bent to pick it up the door to the room opened behind him. "Is it breakfast already? I must have slept longer than I thought." He said.  
"I am afraid not, my son.Though I assume your breakfast will be along soon." Replied the Revered Mother of Ostwick. Ruan spun around to face her. Her smile was almost mischievous as she ambled into the room, leaning on a cane. She held out a hand and Ruan handed the book to her without thinking. She looked at it and thumbed through the open pages. "Reading Sister Tessaria?” she observed and placed the book on the table. “I had heard that you were a scholar. Tamsyn tells me that your parents had hopes for you within the chantry?"  
"I disappointed them." Ruan replied.  
"Yes. She mentioned that as well."  
"Am I a prisoner, revered mother?"  
Thelois sat down in the chair with a sigh. "I do not make a habit of interrogating our prisoners in person, my son. Officially, though, you are under the custody of the templar order."  
“On what charges?”  
“None. You are a witness in our investigation into corruption within the order.”  
“And what of the accusations made against us at the teyrn’s court.”  
“Henryk knows that if he pursues that matter then I will have to look more carefully into who has been paying for the services of apostates and rogue templars. He very badly wants to avoid that.”  
“So you have traded for my life by hiding the truth.” Ruan said. It was not a question. He sat down on the bed, his shoulders bunching in frustration. “Teyrn Henryk is corrupt. He has us sitting on our hands while the blight spreads. My life is not worth that.”  
“Fortunately, young man, we do not get to be the judge on the worth of our own lives.” Thelois replied patiently, “Besides, it is not only you that hangs in the balance.”

Ruan thought carefully about that. He knew that she could be talking about Karel and the other militia soldiers arrested alongside him, but there was something more to it. “You don’t want people to know that you helped the grey wardens to escape.” he said suddenly. The revered mother made no reply, so Ruan continued. "Why? It was the right thing to do."  
“I do not see many people coming to thank you for your part in it, Serah.” she answered. Ruan stared mutely at the revered mother for a long moment. Then he burst into bitter laughter and stood, turning to face out of the window. Henryk had told him that they would hate him for defending the grey wardens. It seemed that he might win their wager after all. "So now that you have your understanding with the teyrn, what becomes of us?"  
"It is clear that your soldiers played only a minor part in all of this. They have been released."  
"And me?"  
Thelois shifted her stick and leaned on it. It was the first time that he had seen her look even slightly uncomfortable. "After the scene you made at the teyrn's court it would be best, for your own safety, if you remained under Templar custody."  
Ruan looked at the four walls of his little room and paced across it. It took four steps. "Safer for yourself as well, I assume? You cannot be seen to release a reputed accomplice of blood mages onto the streets, revered mother."  
"I could arrange for you to be placed under house arrest on your father's bannorn, away from the city."  
"No." Ruan answered quickly.  
"The Templar guards would only be a formality. They would leave after a few days."  
"I said no." The idea of appearing at his father's door as a disgraced prisoner made him want to tear his own skin off.

"As you wish, my son." The revered mother said and started to rise with a strained sigh. For a moment Ruan’s anger made him resist the impulse to help her, but only for a moment. She patted his arm as she leaned on it and turned to go. Ruan went back to the window. The herbs in the cathedral gardens were going to seed and the warm air was stirring again into winds that always threatened storms at this time of year. Back on the bannorn his father's tenants would be starting to bring in the harvest and taking their pigs into the woodland to find mushrooms. He wondered how many would be doing the same over the sea in Ferelden. How many fields would be left abandoned for the crops to rot; how many farmsteads burned? He had read several accounts of how the blight affected plants and animals. If only half of them were true it would be bad enough.

"Revered mother?" Ruan called out.  
She stopped at the door and turned back to him, "Yes, my son."  
"There is something that you can do for me."  
"Yes?"  
"Use it."  
"I am afraid that you will have to explain yourself, my son."  
"Henryk believed that our people are weak and frightened and stupid and all we would care about is ourselves. Now you have humiliated him and he must not challenge you for fear that you might expose him. Right now you are the most powerful person in Ostwick. You could lead us. You could help us to be something more than he believes we can be. So here is my request, your reverence: Don’t sit on your power like hoarded coins as Henryk did. Use it."  
In the doorway Revered Mother Thelois regarded Ruan thoughtfully. "Perhaps your parents were right to see a career in the chantry for you, my son. You might have been good at it." She turned to go. "This has been a most interesting conversation, Serah. I think I shall return at another time to speak with you further."  
"I would like that very much, your reverence." Ruan replied, and to his surprise, he meant it.


	14. Epilogue

**Tamsyn** had abandoned the carriage long before she reached the small chapel. The revered mother had declared three days of special services in every chantry in Ostwick and its domains. The people of the city had embraced the impromptu festival with gusto. The streets were clogged with people and Tamsyn found it far easier to wind through the milling crowds on foot using her sister’s cap and vestments as a passport. As she approached the high doors of the chapel even that was not enough to earn her passage. The small square was crowded with people listening to a mother and a choir of chanters singing from the Chant of Light.

“All sins are forgiven! All crimes pardoned!  
Let no soul harbour guilt! Let no soul hunger for justice!  
By the Maker’s will I decree harmony in all things.  
Let balance be restored…”

“And the world given eternal life.” The crowd echoed the final line of the verse in their own, ragged harmony. As they finished the cleric called, “Come forth, all pilgrims!” A line of people formed. As they passed the podium they each dropped a few coins into a large chest. Though Tamsyn could not see the sisters at the foot of the podium she knew they would be there, giving each ‘pilgrim’ a badge for their cap or their cloak. The badges, in the shape of a ship with a sunburst in place of a sail, were usually worn only by those who had crossed the Waking Sea to Amaranthine and walked the whole length of the pilgrims’ path to Denerim and the birthplace of Andraste. No pilgrim ships had sailed since the news of Ostagar, nor would they be allowed to do so for fear of carrying the blight back to Ostwick on their return. Yet Revered Mother Thelois had declared acts of charity to relieve the suffering of Ferelden a devotion equal to pilgrimage at this dark time, and the people of Ostwick had responded with an outpouring of generosity. Few ordinary folk could afford to leave their land or their work and pay for the crossing to Amaranthine, but now for a handful of coins they could wear the badge of a pilgrim and enjoy Andraste’s grace. 

Word of the ‘pilgrimage of mercy’ had spread throughout the Free Marches and the cathedral’s coffers were filling up faster than Tamsyn could spend it, even though she had disbursed more in the last month than she had in most years. Grain, clothing, blankets, tents, salted fish and meat, healing herbs, herds of livestock and even some weapons had been bought and stockpiled. Only a little more would fill the ships whose owners had volunteered them to carry it all to Ferelden. It must be soon, Tamsyn knew, for the winter storms would make the crossing hazardous. 

The pilgrims were not what Tamsyn had come to see, however. She moved around the edge of the square and pushed through to the side street which ran between the chapel and an inn. As she passed the arched gate that led into the inn’s courtyard, she saw there the object of her search; a small covered carriage from the stables of the cathedral. It was the same one that had been missing weeks before, when the revered mother had departed from her rigid routine, only to return with information about the fate of her brother and the intentions of Teyrn Henryk. Thelois had never once spoken about her strange behaviour, but Tamsyn knew that she had been meeting with her informant inside the teyrn’s court. How else could she have known of Henryk’s plans and prepared to counter them? 

Part of Tamsyn knew that, if Thelois had not told her about her informant, she would have had good reason for it. Yet when the revered mother had once again failed to appear for her breadcake this morning the unspoken knowledge had been an itch that would not let Tamsyn concentrate on her many tasks. Since she had accepted her place in the chantry she had learned that patience, faith and obedience had many rewards. That she was here now, spying on her mentor, told her that some part of her was still that girl who had packed a bag and bought passage for two on board a ship for Ferelden on the day before she had taken her vows. Where would she be now if she had boarded that ship, she wondered, even if she had been boarding it alone?

She stood under the overhanging balcony of the upper floors inside the inn courtyard, and she waited. There was a second carriage in front of the revered mother’s. The horses of neither carriages had been untacked or sent to the stables. Both coachmen sat at the reins. Tamsyn watched them for five, then ten minutes. Patience has its rewards. Finally she saw a figure enter the courtyard. She was wearing the vestments of a humble sister, but she walked with a cane and Tamsyn instantly recognised Thelois as she climbed into the first carriage. Tamsyn remained under the cover of the balcony as it turned and drove out through the archway. 

She had only to wait a few more minutes before the owner of the second carriage returned to it. They walked briskly, and wore a plain brown cloak with a heavy hood that hid their features. There was a pilgrim’s badge at the shoulder and its hem swept in the mud behind them. Tamsyn stepped as close as she dared, but all she could see was the slim, feminine hand holding the hood low to cover the face. As she climbed into the carriage she shut the door and the driver urged the horses on. Tamsyn dashed out onto the street after them, only to see them disappearing up the hill. She muttered a curse under her breath and stood, tempted to follow the carriage. It would soon grind to a halt in the busy street. Yet there was no way of seeing the passenger inside it without revealing herself. The sun was nearing midday and she would already be late for her expected appointment. Faith, obedience and patience have their rewards. 

When Tamsyn arrived at the estate in the South Quarter the gates were open and torches lit. She stood across the street for a while looking at the twin statues of boars which guarded the gates. It had been years since she had passed between them, though it might have been yesterday. She looked down at her vestments and tried to knock the worst of the mud from her boots before she walked through. The courtyard held scores of people, all dressed in finery and gathered around an Orlesian-style fountain in the centre. “May I announce you, Sister?” said an elderly servant as she came into the courtyard.  
“Hello Herold.” Tamsyn replied.  
“Lady Trevelyan?” the old man raised his thick grey eyebrows in recognition.  
“Sister Tamsyn.” she corrected him.  
“Ah. Yes. My apologies, Sister. Shall I announce you?”  
“No. Don’t interrupt him. I’m not here to dance anyway.”  
“As you wish my la…. Sister.”

Walking around the edge of the courtyard gave Tamsyn a view of the stone bench beneath the red roses climbing the pillar to the balcony. Conrad was standing on the bench and holding a goblet of wine as he addressed the gathered nobles. 

“One day this blight will end, for good or for ill.” His voice resonated within the courtyard walls as he cast his eyes over his rapt audience. “There will come a day when we can look around us and say, ‘it is over and we survived’, or there will come a day when we fall.” He lifted his free hand to the heavens, “The Maker knows which, for it is in His hands. Yet whichever of those days finds us I do know that on that day we will look back on the time we had and what we did with it. Maybe the time will come when the blight corrupts all the land and all cities burn. Or maybe the day will come that world celebrates the death of another archdemon. Whichever one comes there will be those who look back and ask, ‘What did Ostwick do?’” Conrad crouched down on the bench to look around at his audience. “Well let me tell you this, my friends. I know what I want to look back on when that day comes, and I know what I want them to say. Let them say that we fed those that were hungry, and sheltered those that had lost their homes. Let them say that we defended those that we could. Let them say that Ostwick stood up and fought!” He stood up tall above them as they cheered. “And I know what I want them to say about Conrad Evenrig in this life and the next. I want them to say that I was a pilgrim!” From his doublet he pulled pewter pilgrim’s badge and held it up before pinning it to his cloak as the gathered nobles cheered and applauded. “When those ships sail, friends, I will be on board. Who is with me?” 

As the cries of acclamation began, Conrad reached down to take a woman’s hand and pull her up onto the bench beside him. Tamsyn felt a cold weight in the pit of her stomach banishing the warm glow as she watched Helena Penhaligon standing on the bench clutching a bag of pewter badges and handing them out. “Three cheers for Bann Evenrig!” she called in a surprisingly strong voice.  
“Three cheers for our next champion!” a voice called back from below. Tamsyn thought she might have been the only one that caught the shadow of a scowl that crossed Conrad’s face at that. Yet he laughed as he called back. “Don’t be a bloody fool, Luttrel!”

Tamsyn stood back into the shadow of a pear tree as Conrad climbed down to receive the back slapping and congratulations. Her role would come soon enough. When the enthused nobles were making their declarations of support, she would be there to hear them. That alone would turn much boasting into pledges that could be called upon to be fulfilled. Excited groups formed around the couple and Tamsyn tensed as she watched Helena loop her arm around Conrad’s and the two of them walked smiling through the crowd. She glanced back at the gates and wondered if she could slip away before they saw her; wondered if she would if she could. Imagining the subtle disappointment on Revered Mother Thelois’ face should she fail this next test was enough. She folded her hands into her sleeves and glided out of the shadows. If a well run chantry was like a swan, a well run sister could be likewise. 

She pretended not to notice the surprised looks on the faces of those that knew her as she approached Conrad. “That was quite a speech. I don’t think I’ve heard you talk about the Maker before unless you were cursing. I was quite inspired.”  
Conrad snorted. “That’s what I get for letting your blasted brother write my speeches. He should have given the damned thing himself.”  
“Somehow I don’t think they would have reacted quite the same way given his… circumstances.” Tamsyn replied. Conrad nodded for a little too long and looked over at the fountain as if it was new and interesting rather than a feature that had been there since he was a child. The awkward silence dragged until Helena finally spoke. “It is inspiring to see what you are doing. I have always had faith, but now I feel proud to go to the chantry.”  
Tamsyn looked her in the eye for the first time and made herself smile. “I am glad.”  
Helena Penhaligon nodded and smiled back. “I should not linger. Father thinks that I have gone to pray.” She lifted a hand and beckoned to a servant.  
“Will he still not support the pilgrimage?” Tamsyn asked.  
“Not yet.” Helena’s smile turned wan. The servant, a coachman, approached and placed a cloak on her shoulders. It was a plain brown that seemed out of place on her sumptuous green velvet gown. There was a pilgrim’s badge on her shoulder and the hem hanging at her feet was splattered with mud. Tamsyn’s eyes widened at the sight of it, for she knew that she had already seen it today. She summoned all her years of training to replace her serene mask. “He is a not a bad man, not really.” Helena said as she pulled up the heavy hood. “Keeping the peace has not been easy for him.” Tamsyn realised that she was staring as Helena left, and turned back to Conrad. “Tamsyn…” he began to speak. She stopped him with a raised hand.  
“Thank you for what you are doing. Thank you to you both.” she said. “Now, there is much for us to do.” Faith, obedience and patience will have their own rewards.

**********

 **Roslinn** stood impassively beside the doorway of the small room and watched Anton Muret eat. The apostate’s thick black hair was tied back into a tail and his beard had grown in length and untidiness. His cheeks bulged as he took a bite from a chicken leg and chewed noisily, wiping the grease from his lips with the back of his hand. “I have been more than forthcoming, revered mother.” he said through the half-chewed meat. Ser Roslinn suspected that this was the first time he had eaten meat since he had been living at the cathedral. 

“Have you indeed?” replied Revered Mother Thelois. She was sitting in an upholstered seat that Roslinn had carried into Muret’s cell for her. The unusually lavish meal had been carried by the other templar in the room. He was a man with a shaved head, a grey beard and startling, pale blue eyes that had flashed with disgust when the revered mother had handed him the plate of roasted chicken and asked him to take it to the apostate. He had said something about not being a servant, but Thelois had given him little choice. The older templar was glaring at Muret with barely disguised hatred. If Anton had registered that, or the fact that a special meal with the revered mother could bode very ill for him indeed, he was not showing it. In fact the mage leaned back and gestured merrily at Roslinn with the gnawed bone. “You have captured several dangerous apostates already, have you not? That is thanks to me and my ledger, I think.”  
“Yet you have translated your ledger in a very selective way, Serah Muret.” the revered mother rejoined. 

Roslinn had assumed the duties of a knight-captain since Ser Lukas’ post had been left vacant, though she had not yet been formally raised to the rank. To her had fallen the duty of pursuing the apostates calling themselves the ‘mages’ collective’. Anton’s ledger was indeed the key to her hunt, but its pages were enchanted so that only Muret himself could unveil their contents, and he had only deigned to do so piecemeal. “The ones I have not given you are harmless. Am I Maferath, to betray all my friends whose only crime is wishing to live freely?” he shrugged  
“A pious allusion, serah, but you know that for your friends that is a crime.”  
Anton sucked his teeth. “They keep themselves to themselves. They trouble no-one. Some mages are not so wise or so careful. Those are the ones that I have given to you. Those who meddle with demons and blood. Frankly, your reverence, some of them even worried me.”

Roslinn snorted at that, for she suspected that Anton’s hands were far from clean. Miraculously, none of the translated passages in the ledger had directly incriminated him. She could hear Ser Otto beside her grinding his teeth. Yet she did have to admit that she was glad to have removed the threat of the apostates that Anton had given up to them. That thought only made her more nervous. She knew that, at that moment, one such mage was still in Ostwick, even if she was under guard at the docks and ready to leave. In truth, Ser Roslinn felt that leaving the apostate named Irene alive was too much risk. She would have preferred to have executed her when she had been captured, but the orders from the knight-commander had been explicit. The subject was to be captured alive and held until a transfer could be arranged. 

Roslinn had ensured that every precaution had been taken during that transfer. That very morning she and three other templars had taken her from the holding cells beneath the Circle Tower. Irene did not look like much; just a woman of middling height in her early thirties with ash-blonde hair. The clues that she was more than she seemed were the steel mask enclosing her mouth and jaw and the steel bands that bound her forearms together. She had walked with her head held high and had not struggled. Ser Roslinn led her with a firm grip on her upper arm. The second knight held her other arm, a third concentrated upon dispersing any magical energies in the charged environment of the Circle Tower, the fourth walked behind holding a drawn blade and orders to behead the prisoner with a swift stroke at the first sign of trouble. 

Roslinn had commanded that the corridors between the holding cells and the sea gates should be cleared. They had descended the spiral staircase to the granaries and stores. The stairs and corridors there were dark, lit only by torchlight, for they were carved from the very stone beneath the tower. Records showed that dwarves had cut those passages for the magisters of Tevinter in the days when Ostwick had been nothing more than a fort at the edge of their empire. They had also constructed the tower above to warn ships coming from the North of the dangerous shallows around the island. The passages opened through a wide gate into a natural cavern cut by wave and shingle, rather than dwarven craft. In the morning’s high tide, the island that was one at low ebb was now a family of rocky promontories jutting from the sea. The cavern was also flooded and light had been streaming in through the collapsed roof of the cave to dapple the water a dancing turquoise. That water was deep enough for the shallow draft longships used by the templars. 

One such ship had stood at the jetty readied with a crew of a dozen templar oarsmen. Roslinn and her three companions had boarded the vessel and forced the captured apostate to her knees before running a chain through her shackles to bind her to the deck. Only when she was satisfied that the prisoner would not be able to move had Roslinn ordered the ship to leave the jetty. They pushed off and rowed out of the cave, into the shallows around the Circle Island, the wind snatching at Roslinn’s tabard. The small ship had unfurled its sail and before long they had rounded the cliffs and were out in open water making for Ostwick.

As they approached the harbour jetties reserved for the use of the Circle. Roslinn had been relieved to see another ship awaiting them. She did not want the mage to be within the city for any longer than necessary. Her hope had been that the transfer could take place without letting her touch dry land at all. They tied up the longship alongside the other and Roslinn disembarked to meet its commander on the docks; the same man with the grey beard and cold eyes that stood with her now in Anton Muret’s cell. “Ser Otto, I presume?” she had greeted him.  
He had bowed courteously enough. “Ser Roslinn, I presume?”  
“We have your escapee. I suggest that we secure her aboard your ship without delay.” Ser Otto merely nodded in reply and gestured at the knights aboard his vessel. They laid a wide gangplank across to the Ostwick ship and crossed. Roslinn’s conscience did not allow her leave the task to the Kirkwall templars, and she went back aboard her ship and ordered her knights to stand ready as the prisoner was unchained and lifted to her feet. 

She watched carefully as they led the apostate across the gangplank. She had been still and compliant since she had been taken from the holding cells, but this was the moment Roslinn had worried about. She drew her sword and stepped on the gangplank behind her. As Ser Otto had appeared at the other side, the apostate seemed to jump, thrashing wildly. She twisted and pulled at the grip each of the Kirkwall templars had on her arms. Suddenly, she threw her whole weight against the man to her right, overbalancing him over the edge of the gangplank. Then several things happened at once. 

The templar leaned, windmilling his arms around. Then at the last moment he twisted and jumped from the plank towards the side of his own ship. The apostate attempted to throw herself after him, even into the dark water where the barnacled hulls of the two longships were bumping against each other. Roslinn had been too quick. She tossed her sword into her left hand and lunged with her right, catching her by the arm. She screamed in sudden exertion as she pulled back against the weight to swing the falling mage around to tumble over the railing of the Kirkwall ship. Roslinn staggered after her and barely kept to her feet. There was a watery bump behind her as the two ships rolled together and the templar still clinging to the side screamed as his legs were crushed between the hulls.

Roslinn quickly passed her sword back into her right hand and held the point to the apostate’s throat as she rolled over. Ser Otto was crouching down beside her. “Hello Irene. Its nice to see you again.” he had greeted her calmly, without turning to watch his men hauling their comrade back over the railing and aboard. The woman was wide-eyed and shaking her head. Her voice was making incoherent muffled sobs from behind her muzzle. Roslinn might have felt pity for her had she not seen the body parts of those she had killed before she had been captured. She certainly would not have taken off the muzzle for any reason, having seen what the mage could do with merely a word.

“I advise you to kill this one now, Ser Otto. She killed several people and put two of my knights in the infirmary.” Out of the corner of her eye Roslinn tried to assess the damage to the legs of the man now laid out on a rowing bench. “Yes. She was always a talented one.” Ser Otto had replied. “You are quite right to think her dangerous, but her knowledge and her research are still of great value. The knight-commander dislikes waste, and she prefers that escapees be returned to the Circle wherever possible. It is a better example to the others to see that escape is futile. Do not worry. Irene will be compliant and useful again soon. All will be tranquil.” The keening sobs ached louder from the steel muzzle. Roslinn had not moved her sword point from her throat until three Kirkwall templars arrived to pull her to her feet.  
“We run a tight ship at Kirkwall, Ser Roslinn.” Otto continued. “Irene will not get any further opportunities to make mischief once she is safely at the Gallows. The knight-commander would have been impressed with you today. I could speak to her about getting you transferred if you wish.”  
Roslinn’s brow had knitted as she sheathed her sword. She disliked the implications about Ostwick behind Ser Otto’s offer. “My place is here.” she replied and turned to cross back to her ship. “I suggest you put to sea as soon as you may.”

“Knight-lieutenant.” Ser Otto had called her back. “I have further orders from the knight-commander that I must satisfy before I leave Ostwick.”  
Roslinn turned back. “What orders, Ser?”  
“Take me to the apostate that supplied the information that led to Irene’s capture. I must interview him, and search the place where he made his hideout.”  
His eyes never seemed to blink. Roslinn did not like the tone of his ‘request’. “We have already made several searches of his home, Ser Otto. There is nothing further to find.”  
“Nevertheless. The knight-commander will not be satisfied until she has a report directly from me.”  
Roslinn sighed and jabbed her finger at the apostate Irene. “Make sure that she is chained well. Then meet me on the docks.”

It had been well past midday and Ser Roslinn had still been waiting impatiently at the door of what had been the home of the Muret family. The apostate Irene had been sitting at the docks of Ostwick for hours and still Ser Otto was delaying; insisting upon checking the work of the Ostwick templars. The house was not in the same state it had been when Roslinn was last there. When she had apprehended Anton Muret his home had been untidy but well kept, and full of life. Now it was an empty shell. The table, chairs and cabinets had been overturned and broken up. Their only use now would be as firewood. Roslinn noted that no-one had come to claim it as firewood, despite that fact that the doors were splintered and broken. The whitewashed walls of the kitchen had been pasted with graffiti in a reddish brown that might actually have been blood. As best she could tell it was meant to say things like ‘filthy mage’, ‘maleficar’ and ‘Andraste forgive you’. By the smell there were worse things in the fireplace. The ordinary folk of Ostwick, it appeared, did not seem willing to forgive those who had harboured an apostate mage in their midst. Ser Roslinn could not blame them for that, but as she recalled that children that had lived here, their treatment did not seem like justice. 

Ser Otto eventually emerged from the staircase, scowled and wrinkled his nose as he scanned the room. “There is nothing here.” Roslinn said once again. “I doubt that the mage created any item that could be used to translate the ledger. Why would he?”  
Otto did not reply to that directly. “He must have used something to create it. I will interrogate him now.” his voice snipped in annoyance.  
Roslinn clenched her jaw. “As a courtesy to the Kirkwall Circle, I will take your request to the revered mother.”  
“You should not allow the clerics to interfere so much with your duty.” Otto snapped. Roslinn gritted her teeth. If it would get this man and his prisoner out of her city faster she would let the revered mother deal with him. “By all means, Ser. Follow me.”

For her part Revered Mother Thelois has listened patiently to Ser Otto’s demands despite how tired she looked. That Muret and his ledger should be sent immediately to Kirkwall was something he repeated more than was necessary. Then she had nodded and ordered a meal to be cooked for Muret and disappeared, leaving Roslinn and her guest waiting for another hour as Ser Otto’s twitchy annoyance only grew hotter. She could she that he was quivering as he watched the Orlesian mage nonchalantly chewing his food.

“You want to bleed me dry all at once, eh?” Anton smirked as he took another bite. “You wish me to think that it is your kindness and mercy that is keeping me safe, but in truth it is only that ledger and the fact that you need me to translate it.” he tapped his chest with this thumb. “You need me now to keep your teyrn’s balls in a vice. If you do not tell me that you would not let your templars make me tranquil the very moment that you have your hands on Teyrn Henryk’s dirty little secrets, revered mother, then I will not call you liar.”

It came as no surprise to Roslinn when Ser Otto exploded. “You would not get such gentle treatment were you in Kirkwall, mage,” he snarled, “There we know exactly how to treat such insolence!”  
Anton jumped in his seat. “Serah Muret, this is Ser Otto Alrik of Kirkwall. He has asked to take you with him when he returns there.” Revered Mother Theolis finally introduced the templar.  
“To Kirkwall?” Anton sat upright and dropped the chicken thigh. “You can’t allow that!”  
“She must.” interrupted Ser Otto. “We will see that you are taught to toe the line properly back at the Gallows. You will translate your ledger for us in full and thank us for allowing it.”  
“I have already explained that you cannot make me tranquil. I, and only I, can find the true words in the Fade. Then you will have nothing.”  
Ser Otto’s cold eyes narrowed. “We would have another tranquil. They are very useful. Yet I don’t think I would need to make you tranquil to make you do as I wish.” Anton swallowed his food slowly.

“Do you see, my son? You really would be happier staying with us here in Ostwick and cooperating.” interrupted the revered mother. The templar swung around to face her.  
“You assured me that you would let me take the apostate.” he snapped. Ser Roslinn saw the way that the cleric’s eyes narrowed at that. “I implied that I would, Ser. There is a world of difference between the two.”  
“The knight-commander’s orders…” Ser Otto replied, only to be cut off by a loud click of the revered mother’s cane on the flagstones. “The knight-commander? To which one are you referring, Ser? The last time that I checked this was still Ostwick. Ostwick and not Kirkwall. We have our own knight-commander. Your knight-commander’s orders do not apply here, Ser Otto. Mine do. She would do well to remember that.” she jabbed the cane in Ser Otto’s direction.  
“You are subordinate to the Grand Cleric in Kirkwall!” spluttered Ser Otto.  
Thelois laughed. “Dear old Elthina? By all means go and petition her to intercede and send me an order. I wish you luck in getting her to reach a decision. I will see you again whenever she does.” The revered mother seemed to creak as she rose from her chair, but her face hardened. “Ser Roslinn has informed me that while you linger here you leave a dangerous apostate on our docks. Go and see to your duty, Ser.”

The templar’s cold eyes flashed murderously at the cleric, but he turned and left the way he had come. When he had gone, Thelois turned back to Anton. “Your clever little ledger is a fine defence, serah, but there are worse threats beyond these walls that only I can shield you from. Please remember that when I put my next request to you.”  
Anton nodded slowly. “What is your request, your reverence?”  
Thelois smiled. “You may have heard that we will soon be sending an expedition to Ferelden. Some are even calling it a pilgrimage. I have staked the reputation of the Chantry upon it. I want you to help assure its success.”  
Anton frowned “How may I do that, your reverence?”  
“You are a well travelled man, and I know that you must have friends in Ferelden, friends that can only be reached and reasoned with by someone such as you. Our pilgrimage may need the assistance of such friends.”  
“I will do what I can, your reverence.” Muret replied.  
“That is good. Ser Roslinn, may I assume that you would be willing to go with Serah Muret to ensure his good behaviour.”  
Roslinn drew in a breath. Go to Ferelden? The possibility had not occurred to her before now. “I will always do my duty, your reverence,”

Revered Mother Thelois nodded and held out a pewter badge to Anton. “Congratulations my son. Once you were an apostate. Now you are a pilgrim.”

**********

 **Ruan** pulled the hood of his cloak down further as the rain drummed insistently on the top of his head. The evenings had started to draw in earlier over the last weeks and he knew that it would be dark before he reached the city gates. Still he did not push the horse. He was in no hurry to return. During the past two days he had not thought to cover his face with a hood unless it had been raining, nor had people given him suspicious glances or spat to ward off evil magic as he had passed. Ruan was even wearing his own armour with the Trevelyan stallion etched on the steel, though it was hidden underneath the scarlet chanty cloak.

The ride to Elmross Cloister had been a pleasant one. The weather had been fine and the pace leisurely as he had ridden alongside the wagon carrying the Muret family and what was left of their worldly possessions. The wagon was covered and had not been recognised as they had left the city, so Ruan’s sword had not been needed to ward off trouble. The coast road, too, was relatively safe, but it seemed that Madame Muret had appreciated the security of an armed guard on their journey to sanctuary and exile at Elmross. She and her family had seemed dazed and distant and had spoken little as they travelled. The only conversation Ruan had had was with the youngest girl, Adele, who had declared angrily that she “Wanna ride horse” over and over again until her mother had allowed it. She had sat, grinning, as she clung to the saddle pommel with one hand and a pottery griffon held together with glue with the other. The conversation had begun with her sage observations that this was a griffon, that was a horse and he was a knight. Ruan had mentioned that he wasn’t really a knight but Adele had been insistent. “Noooo! Knights ride horses. You a knight.” Ruan had given in and added that once very brave knights had ridden griffons. Adele had asked if he rode a griffon. Ruan had replied that there were no griffons anymore. Both of them had agreed that this was very sad. After twenty minutes Adele had grown fidgety and had been called back by her mother. 

The sisters of Elmross had laid aside a small croft on their land for the Murets, in accordance with Revered Mother Thelois’ orders. Ruan had carried their possessions into the low, sturdy stone building and helped the older girl light the fire in the hearth while he tried not to see the disbelieving look that Madame Muret was casting around their humble new home. When Adele had sleepily asked “Maman, can we go home?” He had shared a look with Madam Muret and politely excused himself. 

He had been given a room in the lay brothers’ accommodation for the night. He had undressed and slung down his pack and looked around the small cell with its statue of Andraste in an alcove and had bitterly chuckled to himself at the thought that he had come close to fulfilling his father’s wishes and joined the Chantry after all. He hadn't slept much, but had lain awake wondering if he would have been happy had he taken orders straight out of the university. Maybe he would be back in Val Royeaux now, sleeping on soft sheets and researching chantry history. Paths not chosen. Dead branches in the story of his life. 

He had awoken late in the morning and it had been almost midday when he had set off on the return journey to Ostwick. The low grey clouds brought persistent drizzle that gradually grew harder as the day passed. Mist shrouded the rolling land ahead and behind so that Ruan felt he was alone in all the world save for the waves breaking far below at the feet of the cliffs. As the wind picked up the cloud ahead cleared and in the distance he could see the light atop the Circle Tower which helped to guide ships away from the shallows and sandbanks and into the harbour.

To get a better look, Ruan pushed back his hood. As he did he saw the rider on the ridge out of the corner of his eye. He resisted to urge to sweep his head around and kept peering ahead at the tower light as he let his horse walk on. The rider was silhouetted against the grey sky and kept pace with Ruan walking along the ridge. Bandits were rare on the coast road, but it had occurred to Ruan more than once that Teyrn Henryk might send assassins to take his vengeance where the law had failed him. 

Ahead the road turned away from the cliffs and through a small wood which looked to Ruan like the perfect place for an ambush. If the rider on the ridge was trying to panic him into galloping into a trap he would not oblige him. He reined in his horse and and scanned the tumbled grassland around him for places where archers, or worse, might hide. Then he turned the horse to face the rider, drew his sword and unslung his shield as they slowly approached each other. He held the blade low as he peered through the dimming light at the figure. He tested his grip the sword and walked his horse around a boulder to leave his shield facing the other rider. 

“Where is she?” Growled a low, hard voice from beneath the hood.  
“If you are looking for Andraste, she is at the Maker’s side. I can’t help you find any other women.” Replied Ruan, remembering his chantry cloak.  
“Don’t play games, Marcher. Have you seen her?” It took Ruan another moment to realise that he recognised the voice. When he pushed back his hood Warden-Constable Hector’s stern face matched his voice. “Constable? What are you doing here? Who are you talking about?”  
“The Mage. Isheris. Have you seen her?”  
Ruan’s mount whickered underneath him, as if sensing his surprise. “Not since the night of your escape.” he replied hesitantly.  
Hector grunted in reply. “She was not captured.”  
Ruan could not decide if he was asking a question. “I do not think so. Though it might have been easier if you had told me that you were sending her with us.”  
“Is that what she told you?”  
“Isn’t it true?”

The grey warden didn’t answer. Instead he gave Ruan a long, searching look. “You have done my order some service, messere. I thank you for it.” Then he turned his horse around. Many questions surged into Ruan’s mind at once, but a sudden impulse dispelled them all at once. Testimony at the trial had suggested that the wardens were considering conscripting him. It was their right, especially now. If he was to call out to Hector now, he might take him. He could just ride off and disappear, no-one would know where he had gone. What did he have to return to, behind those double walls, except disgrace and suspicion? He drew a breath and looked over his shoulder at the light of Ostwick’s Circle Tower glittering in the distance. He thought about Conrad and his big, broad smile and his bigger laugh. He thought about Tamsyn and imagined her returning to their parents to tell them that he had disappeared. He drew another breath and watched the warden-constable riding away. On the third breath he turned his horse back towards the light in the distance. Another path not chosen. The tree of his life must be sparse indeed. 

When he arrived at the gates of Ostwick they were already closed for the night, though a tired looking guard let him through the wicket gate. He had to give his name and his business, of course. He looked the man square in the eye as a challenge and saw the moment that he recognised the name and considered denying him passage. The revered mother’s name, however, opens many doors. 

Instead of returning to his cell in the cathedral, Ruan found his feet taking him past the Dreadnaught Gate and on to the Mercer’s Lane. It was the first time that he had returned to the alleyway since he had bled out half of his life here. He had half expected to see blood and gore still spread out on the cobbles. Yet they were shining in the moonlight as the rainwater washed over them, just as they had on that night. He shivered a little as he stepped into the alley. He walked all the way to the high wall at the end and ran his hand over the bricks where they had been replaced and found them still loose. He looked up at the balcony above and remembered the a silhouette against the moonlight. He sighed and shook his head, turning to go. 

He had only taken a few paces before a sudden gust of wind buffeted him. There was a solid clunk behind him and he turned to see a brick lying on the floor. Hesitantly Ruan went back and saw the lowest foothold where the brick had once been. In the moonlight he could just make out a small shape in the hole. He reached in and took it. It was a small twist of delicately carved ivory, a ring in the shape of of a stallion’s head. Ruan stared at it in amazement and ran his thumb over it as he slipped it back onto his index finger. The rain had stopped falling. Out of the corner of his eye Ruan thought he saw something move at the end of the alley, but when he turned to look all he could see were shadows.


End file.
